


stories tucked away

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Stranger Things 3, Reader-Insert, Stranger Things 3, kind of?, self aware reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: AU in which the reader is pulled into the Stranger Things world. With the knowledge of how the story ends, they try to change the script and save the characters they’ve come to love. But this isn’t just a show, anymore, and destiny isn’t easily affected, even if that destiny was written by a pair of grown-up film kids(aka a self-aware reader, the same old gang, the same old monsters, eventual steve/reader, and a few surprises)
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 149





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay so. this au started as…a joke and then it spiraled into me and @daddystevee crying over it for like three nights in a row and now here we are! the reader insert fic that takes the term ‘reader insert’ to the absolute extreme! the epitome of self-indulgence! this fic doesnt intend to take itself seriously, so expect plenty of dorky meta jokes! it’ll loosely follow the events of season 3, starting on ep 3! this au wouldn’t be possible without kaitlyn who came up with it and helped SO much with the plotting, you’re an absolute star and i love and appreciate you!!!!!

The rumbling of thunder above them and the whistling of the wind only unsettled El further as she and Max approached the Mayfield home, despite Max’s assurances that everything was fine, Billy was _fine_ , it was all _fine_. The electricity in the air hummed along her skin like it was waiting for something, something El couldn’t see or sense. 

“It’s gonna be pouring soon. We should be at the mall, or like, watching a movie, or something,” Max said. 

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you saw some super weird stuff, totally, but you said Mike has sensed you in there before, right?”

El nodded as they crossed the grass, the wrongness of the situation seeming to push past that which had settled against her chest like a boulder at the sight of Billy in her head. Something else, something more. It was like the moment before lightning strikes, the air buzzing with anticipation, preparing for a hit they couldn’t predict. Like something else was coming, something she couldn’t put her finger on. 

“So, maybe it was just like that. Maybe Billy just…sensed you somehow,” Max continued, ever desperate to clear her step-brother.

El opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a flash of light in the woods behind the house, a flash unaccompanied by lightning or thunder, a glow that didn’t come from the sky. The pair met each other’s gaze, brows furrowing. 

“What the hell was that?” Max asked. 

“Not the storm,” El said. As if a flip had been switched, a tether attached, she found herself walking away from the home and toward the woods. Max jogged to catch up, glancing back at the house. 

“Are you sure we should be, like, going into the woods after some creepy light?”

El didn’t have the words to explain - there was something in those woods, something that she needed to see. Needed it like she needed air to breathe, like if she didn’t follow the flash, something terrible would happen. She continued toward it, the temperature falling as they crossed the tree line. The thick trees blotted out the dim light from above, leaving them in unsettling darkness as they pushed further into the forest. 

“El…I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Max said, though she didn’t turn around and leave. 

“Something is in here.”

“Like, _a Demogorgon_ type something? Because, if so, I think we should just-”

“Something different,” El said, though she had as little clues to what that something was as Max. All she knew was that it felt necessary, felt inevitable. Max paused for a beat, shaking her head before continuing to follow El. 

A beat later, they hit the clearing. An unnatural circle without trees, or brush, or even grass. The only living thing inside the circle of dirt was…you, curled up on the ground, eyes closed, body still. 

“Are…are they-” Max started. El crossed the clearing to kneel beside you, relieved to find your chest rising and falling slowly. 

“Alive,” El said. Max joined her beside your sleeping frame, the two knelt on either side. 

“The flash…was it lightning? Did it…I don’t know, hit them?”

“I don’t think so,” El said. You had no marks, no burns, nothing to signify how you’d gotten there, how you’d ended up passed out in the middle of the forest. 

Max shook your arm gently, and when your eyes snapped open, both girls jumped back. El recovered first, returning to her spot beside you, eyeing you curiously. 

“Are you okay?” She asked. Your brows furrowed as you took in her face, gaze flicking to Max, confusion only deepening. 

“I…I know you,” you murmured, sitting up unsteadily and pressing your palms to your temples. You let out a groan, eyes squeezing shut. 

Max and El exchanged a look. 

_Knows us?_ Max mouthed. El shook her head; she’d never seen you before. 

“Are you okay? How did you…get here?” Max asked. You opened your eyes, mouth set in a grimace. 

“I don’t…I don’t know. I was…I was watching-” your gaze landed on El’s face, and you shook your head as if trying to dislodge your thoughts. “I must have…hit my head on something.”

“Here, we’ll help you,” Max said, taking your arm and gently tugging. You rolled onto your knees and pushed yourself up, only to collapse again. Without another word, your eyes fluttered shut, and your body went limp. 

* * *

Just because his friends hadn’t answered a _single_ one of _his_ transmissions didn’t mean Dustin was going to ignore theirs. When Max’s code red came in, a panicked speech about finding someone passed out in the woods, he left Steve and Robin to their translating. He biked to Mike’s house, where the alleged unconscious person had been stashed, according to Max. When he arrived, the home was empty. Still, enough years of hanging out in the basement had taught him how to get in without a key, and in minutes he was tugging himself through the downstairs window. 

And sure enough, there you were, passed out on the couch. Dustin approached you slowly, noticing your mumbles as he drew closer. A jumbled mess of _monster_ and _flashing lights_ and _Millie_ and _Susie_. It was the last word that nailed Dustin in place, confusion and distrust flooding through him. He shook your arm, and your eyes snapped open. You appeared just as confused as him, flinching, brows furrowing. 

“Gaten?” You asked. Dustin cocked his head.

“It’s Dustin,” he said. You tipped your head back against the cushions, letting out a breath. 

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is,” he said, unsure why he was arguing with a stranger about his name, but unable to stop. You knew Susie; _how the hell did you know Susie?_

“What do you know about Susie?” He asked. You crinkled your nose and sat up further. 

“Hotter than Phoebe Cates, allegedly,” you mumbled, still a little out of it. 

He reared back, the pieces sinking into place. Susie, the number Eleven, monster. You had to be like Eleven, then. A telepath, or a telekinetic. Perhaps you’d come from the lab - or another lab, like El. Maybe you were another experiment. He couldn’t see your wrists, covered by your sleeves, so he had no way of checking for a number, but the knowledge was enough for him.

* * *

To say you were confused would be a massive, _massive_ understatement. One moment, you were sitting on the couch, the ever-present Netflix beat dropping on the TV, bundled up under blankets to fight off the cold from the storm outside. The next, the room flashed blinding white, and you were on your back in the dirt. 

You vaguely recalled the faces of two girls - familiar, in the way a celebrity was familiar, identified only through scrolling past their posts or watching them in a movie. But before you could grab onto the names, you’d fallen asleep again, and woken with Gates - _Dustin_ , he kept saying, _Dustin_ \- staring at you. 

So, you were pretty sure you were going insane. Or, more likely, had already gone. You were waist-deep in crazy town. _No. Scratch that._ You were waist-deep in a TV show. Same thing, right? 

Maybe you’d hit your head, or been struck by lightning, or perhaps you’d just spent too many hours in front of the TV, and it had fried your brain. Maybe you were in a coma, and your mind landed on the last thing you’d seen as its setting: but of all the places, did it have to be one with freaky monsters? 

Gaten - Dustin, you amended - didn’t seem to find it all that weird, seemingly convinced you were a psychic, and hadn’t listened to your protests. And maybe because you were curious as to where this coma-dream led - or, again, perhaps you were just crazy - when he asked you to come to the mall with him, you agreed. 

“My friends, Robin and Steve, we’re trying to crack this…this Russian transmission, and I figure since you’re like El, maybe you could-”

“The code?” You asked, the first time you’d broken the silence since climbing onto the pegs of Dustin’s bike. He glanced up at you before turning down another street. 

“Yeah. It’s a code. We’ve got a few words, but-”

“I know what it is,” you said. You’d watched the episodes enough times to know, to remember the words the characters had so painstakingly translated. 

Except, they hadn’t translated them, it seemed. At least, not yet. 

You were too busy trying to make sense of it all in your head to listen as Dustin spoke; the code hadn’t been broken yet, which meant, Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington - it felt silly to think of them as characters, their real names pushing through - hadn’t gotten stuck down in the base. They hadn’t been tortured, hadn’t been drugged. 

If you were where you thought you were - _when_ you thought you were - no one was hurt. No one had died, no one had disappeared. Billy Hargrove and Jim Hopper were still alive and safe. 

So, maybe this was a pipe dream, and perhaps it didn’t make a difference what you did inside this…this coma, this dream, this _whatever_ , but maybe, _just maybe_ , it did. 

They weren’t real people. They were figments of an imagination, actors playing a role, words on a page. But the wind coursing through your hair felt real; the movement of Dustin’s creaky bike felt real; his back against your legs felt real.

It all felt real enough to save. Or, at the very least, real enough for you to _try_ to save. 

You knew how this story was supposed to end. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe, you could rewrite the ending. Push the game pieces into configurations that didn’t end in pain or loss or death, even if they were just pawns. 

* * *

For a coma dream, Starcourt Mall looked and felt real. It was exactly as it had been filmed, bustling with life and laughter and noise. You did your best not to stare and gape as Dustin led you through the food court and past the Scoops Ahoy counter to the back room. He pushed through the door, announcing, “I come bearing gifts.” 

Steve and Robin sat across from one another at the small card table, flipping through dictionaries, lifting their heads when you and Dustin came in. For a moment, you forgot the weirdness of it all; disregarded the costumes, the makeup, the memories of the last hour. 

“Joe _fucking_ Keery?” You asked, shaking your head. Joe - _Steve_ \- and Maya - _Robin_ \- met your gaze with confusion. 

“What kinda name is Joe Keery?” Steve asked. Your eyes widened, and you raked a hand through your hair. _Right. Of course. Shame on you for falling out of crazy land for a second._

“ _Yours_ ,” you said. “Or… I guess. Fuck. Not really.”

“Dustin, a random crazy person isn’t a gift. _No offense,_ ” Steve said, the last part directed at you. 

“No, it’s a fair point,” you said. 

“ _They’re not crazy_ ,” Dustin said. His brows furrowed, and he looked at you. “At least, I don’t think so. But they…they _know_ things. Max and El found them passed out behind Billy’s house. And when I found them, they were muttering about Susie.”

“You know Susie?” Robin and Steve asked. 

“Kind of,” you said. 

“And she’s…you know…” Steve trailed off. 

“Real?” You asked. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

“They’re a psychic, like El,” Dustin said. 

“From the lab?” Steve asked. 

“What lab?” Robin asked. 

“Not exactly,” you said. 

“Exactly.” Dustin nodded approvingly. 

“And…no offense, but they’re here…why?” Steve asked. 

Dustin grinned triumphantly. 

“They cracked the code,” he said. Technically untrue; _they_ would crack it, eventually. But that wasn’t for another episode. Which wasn’t something you could just dump on them - _hey, so, I’ve watched you on TV, and now I’m stuck in your world, and I know all this stuff because I watched you, but please let me stay and help me figure out how to get back._

“Well, damn, Dustin,” Steve said. “Should have just started with that.” 


	2. part 2

It seemed easier to digest a psychic, as opposed to the awkward reality of _you’re characters in a tv show_ , so you stuck with that for the time being. These people - it seemed odd to think of them that way, to think of them as _real_ \- were accustomed to weird stuff, and swallowed your excuse with earnest. 

“How does your whole… _thing_ …work?” Steve asked. The four of you sat around the card table, blueprints spread across its surface, and you dished out whatever answers seemed relevant. 

“Think of it like…a tv show or a movie that you’ve seen a million times. You can remember the basics, right? Who does what, goes where, etc.?”

Robin and Dustin nodded, but Steve was only more confused. His brows knit together and he leaned forward. 

“So, your brain is like some future videodisc?”

Robin swatted him.

“God, you’re dense,” she said. 

“I _still_ think we have to go.”

“After you were _just_ told that it ends badly?”

“We never defined _badly_ ,” Steve retorted. Which was true; you’d told them that if they went down there, people would get hurt. You hadn’t said it would be Steve who was hurt the most. 

“Pretty sure that was for a reason,” Robin said. 

“Steve’s right,” Dustin said. He gestured at you with his chin and looked between Steve and Robin. “And if we know what didn’t work the first time, or….the way Y/N saw it, I guess, we can avoid doing it. Be in and out without those assholes knowing we were there.” 

“Does it work like that?” Steve asked you. “Can we change how it ends?” 

That being the magic question, the one with no answer. The story made for good TV, but now that you were standing there, with people who could truly get hurt, with people who didn’t know their friends were going to die, you really, really hoped the answer was _yes_. 

“I don’t know,” you said. “But we can try.” 

Steve leaned back and clapped his hands together. 

“Well, alright, then. Where do we start, dream team?”

Robin rolled her eyes, and you crinkled your nose. 

“First, you trade your soul, and a fuck ton of ice cream,” you said. 

“A fuck ton? That’s ten shit tons. Impressive,” Robin said. Steve frowned and leaned against the table. 

“Trading what, now?”

You stood and crossed to the flimsy window between the back room and the main counter, tugging it open to reveal Erica Sinclair, who had taken up her daily position for ice cream exploitation. At the sight of all of you behind the wall, her mouth twisted into an expectant smile. 

“It’s time for samples, sailors!” She announced. You turned to face the others again, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms. You arched your brows and nodded toward her. 

“Oh, not a chance,” Steve said. 

“You want inside that base, or not?”

Erica rang the bell again, and Robin grabbed a clean scooper from the pile, handing it to Steve, who grumbled in protest but headed out to the front to make a deal with the devil/ten-year-old. 

* * *

While Robin, Dustin, and Erica shopped at the Gap for what Dustin called _mission necessities_ , pockets stuffed full of Robin and Steve’s tips, you and Steve held down the Scoops fort. 

“What happens to us, down there?” Steve asked. You paused in your cleaning of utensils - you felt useless just sitting there, so, _cleaning_ \- and attempted to stay composed. What didn’t happen down there was the more accurate question. 

Down there, Steve was beaten to a bloody pulp, he and Robin were interrogated for hours on end. Down there, Hopper died. Down there, the world ended. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” you said, hoping to avoid questions whose answers hurt. Steve hopped up onto the counter, twirling his white hat on a finger, brows furrowed. 

“You may be able to see the future, but you’re a pretty terrible liar.”

You whirled, crossing your arms, forgetting the suds. 

“I’m not lying.”

“Look. Obviously, it’s something bad. Really bad. Isn’t it better if we know what we’re dealing with?”

“Easy to say when you _don’t_ know.”

“But _you_ do.”

“I don’t-”

“Dustin, Erica, and Robin. Do they make it out?” You were a little surprised to find he didn’t include himself, like he didn’t care, didn’t think his safety was a factor to consider. 

“Yes.”

“And…me?” He asked, an afterthought. You pursed your lips. 

“Barely,” you said. Steve frowned but seemed to accept it, shrugging and hopping off the counter to join you at the sink. He started rinsing bowls, and you stepped back, your heartbeat picking up its pace. 

It was different when it was real. This was no longer a show, no longer a few hours of entertainment with characters on a board that were pushed around for the sake of amusement. Here, you could get hurt. Here, you could die. And it wasn’t just you in danger; every punch that had been faked with a camera and fake blood would hit a real person. 

Maybe the happiest ending was that which had already happened. Maybe there was no way to save Hopper or Billy, no way to change things. Maybe, you getting involved would only make it worse. It could be more than them; Steve, or Robin, or god forbid one of the kids. 

They’d all been to enough funerals to last a lifetime. What if your involvement only brought on more? 

You couldn’t see the board anymore; you were a piece on it, now. At the mercy of a destiny you couldn’t see, plagued with knowledge that may or may not save people. Knowledge that, if you did nothing with it, would certainly end in tragedy. 

The walls constricted, the air tightening like a noose, the urge to _scream_ , to _run_ , clawing up your chest. 

You faced the counter and gripped its edges, shoulders sinking as the panic wound through your nerve endings and set them alight. You felt trapped, as if your very skin was a cage, and you wished desperately to shrug it off. 

“Hey,” Steve said from behind you. You ignored him, head bobbing, eyes squeezed shut. “Hey, are you-”

“Fine.” You spoke through gritted teeth. A hand touched your arm, and you flinched, hitting the counter and turning to face him. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, taking a step back, widening the bridge between you without you having to ask. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” His face twisted into something resembling concern, which was surprising, seeing as he’d only known you for a few days, and you were freaking out in his work’s kitchen. “You okay?”

You pressed your lips together and shook your head, all you were capable of at the moment. Steve nodded, as if that was explanation enough, and moved to stand against the counter beside you, careful to leave the distance you’d set. 

“It’s gonna be okay. You know that better than any of us,” he said, voice low. You let out a mirthless laugh. 

“It’s not, though. It’s _not_ gonna be okay.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told you everything. About what I’ve….seen. There’s more going on than just the Russians.”

“More? Why didn’t you…” he trailed off at your paling face, your gritted teeth. He found the answer for himself, surprising even you. “Oh. Shit. Not everyone…”

“Not everyone makes it out.”

“But I thought you said-”

“You, Robin, Erica, Dustin, you’re fine. You make it out of the base, survive it all. It isn’t what happens inside that I’m worried about. It’s after.”

“After?”

You hesitated, unsure whether telling him would damn him or not. It’s dangerous to know too much about your destiny; it’s more painful to realize you can’t change it. If that was even the case; add it to the list of things you didn’t understand, probably never would understand. 

Steve seemed to understand, though, that the answers you had weren’t necessarily ones he wanted. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he ducked beneath the sink and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to you. You took it, grateful for something to hold onto, to ground you. 

“Whatever happens….it isn’t on you. Just because you can…see it…it doesn’t mean it’s up to you to change it or fix it.”

“But what if it is? What if that’s why I’m here?”

“There’s only so much we get to know,” he said. “Even if you are a psychic who can see the future.” His lips quirked up, and yours mirrored. The anxiety eked away until you could breathe normally, and your pulse slowed. 

“I’m not a….”

“What?”

You shook your head. “Never mind.”

Steve didn’t press, thankfully. He dropped down into one of the folding chairs, leaning against the table, and the blueprints spread across it. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Those words never went to good places, only triggering more anxiety. However, his tone was still calm, not accusatory, which alleviated some of your nerves. 

“You just did,” you said, moving to sit across from him. He gave you a patronizing look.

“Shoot,” you said. 

“Why are you helping us?” He asked. He seemed to realize the words came out harsher than he intended, and corrected, “I mean…you don’t know us. If it’s so dangerous, why help? Why not just stay the hell away and save yourself?”

Another answer you couldn’t give, at least, not in its entirety. You pursed your lips. 

“It…it feels like I know you. Like I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“Like a TV show?” He asked, pulling the explanation you’d given before. You resisted the urge to laugh; _spot fucking on, Steve Harrington._

“Like a TV show,” you said. 

“So, you’ve seen…other stuff? Like, before this?”

You nodded. “Not everything. But I’ve seen a lot.”

He mussed with the red tie on his uniform, frowning. 

“Have you seen…”

“You?”

His mouth twitched into a half-smile, half grimace. 

“Yeah,” you said, “I have.”

“Nothing good, I’m guessing.”

You reared back, brows knitting together. 

“What?”

“I mean, it’s not, like, a secret that I’m…”

“You’re not a dick,” you said, plucking the words from his mouth. He didn’t seem all that surprised you’d finished for him, shrugging. “At least, not anymore. Now, you’re…”

“A loser?”

“Now, you’re amazing,” you said. It didn’t fully encompass what you wanted to say - that he was brave, that he’d realized his faults and set on changing them, that he was kind, that he was selfless - but you didn’t want to weird him out. Having your worst moments on display isn’t something anyone wants or deserves; before he was a real person, it hadn’t felt like such an intrusion. 

You met Steve’s gaze and found him already watching you with an awe-filled expression. You squirmed uncomfortably beneath his eyes, unsure if you’d given away too much, or come across too strong. It couldn’t be all that pleasant to have someone walk in with all your bed memories tucked into their head. 

“You’re pretty amazing yourself,” he said, lips quirking up. 

* * *

You managed to follow the script set for the others all the way down into the base, your knowledge keeping them out of the Russian’s hands for longer than you expected. All the way in, into the comms room - the man Steve knocked out was tied up, this time. 

And then, just as it had the first time, everything went to shit, made only more frustrating by your explicit attempts to change it. You couldn’t stop Robin, Dustin, and Erica from exploring and finding the gate, and you couldn’t have hoped to stop the second guard that came in and found his comrade unconscious and tied up with the red ties of a sailor uniform. You couldn’t have prevented them from setting off the alarm again. 

But you’d be damned if you didn’t stop Steve and Robin from getting hurt. When Dustin lifted the hatch, you forced Erica and Dustin in first, Robin second, Steve last. You didn’t move to climb down after Steve, and he noticed, stopping halfway to watch you run back to the door and hold it. A beat later, the Russians reached it, fists slamming into the metal. 

“Go!” You yelled as Robin’s head popped up beside Steve. 

“Come on! You can make it!” Robin said. You went limp for a moment, meeting Steve’s gaze. He seemed to understand what Robin didn’t at that moment; that you’d seen this, that you knew. 

“They have to find one of us, or they’ll find all of us,” you said. Frustration twisted Steve’s face, but it wasn’t frustration at you, it was frustration towards it all; toward the Russians, towards the inevitability you knew and Steve was just finding out. 

“We can’t leave you here!” Robin said, face falling. You clenched your jaw and gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. 

“You’ll get me out,” you said. “Dustin and Erica have done it before.”

“But-”

“Get out of here! Now!” You snarled, with all the venom you could muster. 

Robin reluctantly dropped, and you turned your focus to holding the door, but you weren’t strong enough, and it was moving against your weight. You cursed and steeled yourself, eyes clamped shut. 

Someone slammed into the metal beside you, and you opened your eyes to find Steve, back pressed to the door, pushing against it as hard as he could.

“I told you to go,” you huffed. Steve shot you a look, shaking his head. 

“And I ignored you,” he said. 

“Stupid!” You said, just as the door gave and you both went flying into the other wall. The cement had no give and you both crumpled against it, immediately surrounded by Russians and big guns. You met Steve’s gaze, your heart beating a mile a minute, and held up your hands in surrender. 

So much for changing things, you thought. All you’d managed to do was fall into the same trap. And now, Steve was stuck down here with you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @harringtown :)


	3. part 3

Getting punched in the face hurt more than you expected.

The Russian packed one hell of a punch, his fist nearly the size of your head, and he knew it, silent but smirking as he hit you. Commander Ozerov watched on coldly, asking questions with answers you couldn’t give and nodding at his man every time you deflected.

“Who do you work for?”

You spat a gob of blood onto the floor and lifted your head unsteadily to meet his gaze.

“Honestly, I’m b-between jobs right now. You know of any openings?” You asked, grinning through blood-soaked teeth and cocking your head. Ozerov’s lips pulled thin, and he shook his head in silent disapproval, jerking his chin at the vast mass of a man beside him. You steeled yourself for the hit but still cried out when his fist made purchase against your belly, punching the breath right out of your lungs.

Your head lolled to the side, mind fuzzy, thoughts darting away too quickly to hold onto. Everything hurt, like your entire body had been run through a food processor, but you reminded yourself you were doing this for Steve. You bore it so he didn’t have to.

It was easy enough to draw the attention to yourself, spitting insults at the Russians the moment they’d yanked you off the concrete floor, pissing them off and making sure they took you away, and not Steve.

It had worked, easily enough. Now, all you had to do to was….not die. Which, after all the hits you’d taken, didn’t seem so easy. You were tired, and you hurt, and all you tasted was the tinny metal of blood, all you saw were stars and Russian uniforms.

“You assholes are fucked, anyway,” you said with a sick smirk, peering at them through your unswollen eye. “You’re gonna die down here, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Another punch to the gut. You doubled over, wheezing, and lifted your chin to meet their eyes, lips quirking up in what probably looked like the smile of a crazy person.

“How did you get in?” Ozerov asked.

“Your security sucks,” you said. “My friends missed a delivery, so we came to check on it and found your shitty little elevator. Which, by the way, is in dire need of a mechanic.”

A swift hit to the stomach, again. You prayed your ribs weren’t broken; that would only make things more complicated, and they were already complicated enough.

“Who do you work for?” Ozerov asked again. His mouth twitched, the only hint that your words troubled him, and triumph sang through your blood. At the very least, he’d be blown up when the gate closed. That was your only consolation, even if you didn’t live to see it happen.

“I told you,” you said, struggling to stay conscious, “No one. But if you know of any jobs-”

You didn’t see the man swing, but his fist smashed into your cheek, rocking you sideways, and the world went black.

* * *

Your body woke up in pieces, each limb and sense dragged up into the light. First, the pain, burning and aching and twisting. Then, your hearing, and the _goddamn_ yelling.

“Hey! Hey! Someone! Please!” Steve’s voice rang painfully loud in your ears, and you groaned, head drooping. You opened your eyes - make that, _eye_ , seeing as one was swollen shut and pulsing - and closed them to slits against the bright lights.

“Dude, you’ve …gotta stop the yelling,” you mumbled, blood dribbling from your lips. Steve stiffened behind you, the chairs shuffling as he craned his head in an attempt to look at you.

“Y/N? Oh my god, Y/N,” he said, tipping his head back against yours, giving up in his attempts to see you. “Holy shit. When they brought you back in here, I swear to god, for a second…I thought…”

“Not dead,” you said.

“Are you okay?”

You laughed mirthlessly.

“I think my nose is broken. Maybe a rib. I think…I think my face might be broken, too. Just put me down as _everything’s broken_ ,” you said.

“Got it,” he said. “Stupid question.”

You closed your eyes, smiling despite the pain. His voice was the only soft spot in all these edges, the only thing keeping you from falling back into the dark.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” You asked. Steve huffed.

“Seriously?” He asked. “You spent the last hour getting the crap beaten out of you, and you’re asking if _I’m_ okay?”

“Are you?”

He shook his head and lifted it, the pressure disappearing from the back of your head.

“I’m okay. They didn’t mess me up too bad. You kinda drew all the fire.”

“Yeah, I regret that now.”

“And _I’m_ the stupid one.”

“You _are_.”

“You know that the door wouldn’t have held. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you said. You spit another glob of blood onto the floor, leaning forward as much as you could. Your ribs whined in protest at the movement, and you wheezed. Steve squirmed in his chair, fighting against bindings you knew wouldn’t break.

“The others will figure something out. They’ve got Robin and the blueprints. They’ll get us out,” Steve said. You sat back.

“They will,” you said, “but I’m more concerned with what happens before that.”

“They’re bringing a doctor.” Steve sounded so incredibly hopeful about the prospect, and you hated to burst his bubble. “They’ll help you.”

“It’s not that kind of doctor,” you said, too tired to elaborate; he’d find out soon enough.

“This his place of work?” He asked. “Love the vibe, but it isn’t really a _healing_ one.”

“More like a _torture innocent teenagers_ one.”

Steve laughed, and the sound lifted just a bit of the weight from your chest. He went quiet, head turned toward the far wall.

“Hey. You see that table?” He asked. You followed his gaze to the table against the wall, stacked with surgical tools.

You remembered this. And knew it would certainly _not_ work.

“I think if we both move at the same time, we can push ourselves over there. Get that knife and cut the bindings.”

You pursed your lips. You’d changed the timeline already merely by being there, and you had no idea the impact you’d made behind the scenes. You had no way of knowing whether or not Robin, Dustin, and Erica were really coming. That knife could genuinely be the only key out.

“Okay. But we’ve gotta do this slow. Or we’re screwed.”

“You’ve seen this?”

“Yes,” you said, “but I _also_ have common sense.”

He chuckled but agreed, and you steadied yourself.

“Alright. Slow movements. Just push it, don’t try to jump,” you instructed.

“Ready.”

“Okay, 3, 2, 1, go.” You both shoved, the chair moving a few inches toward the table. Steve let out a triumphant yell, and you took in a breath, pushing down the growing pain.

“3, 2, 1, go.” Another few inches.

“Holy shit, this is gonna work,” Steve said.

“3, 2, 1.” You lost your footing on the next push, kicking off way too hard and sending both you and Steve careening onto the floor. You smacked the linoleum, still bound awkwardly to the chair.

It turned out you hadn’t changed the timeline _that_ much. Or, you supposed, the chair hopping was never going to work. Perhaps a bit of both.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in your chest, spilling past your lips. The laughter hurt, each breath a stab in your chest, but you couldn’t stop the giggles from overflowing. You understood how Robin had felt; that moment of peace when you realize you can’t do shit.

It was like a wave of calm rushing over you, calming your nerves. You were tied in a chair, severely injured, with no idea if help was coming. There were no more moves to make, no more gambles, no more hail-mary’s. Either you’d make it out of this, or you wouldn’t. It was oddly freeing to realize, to relinquish your scrabbling at fate.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Y/N-” Steve stopped. “Are you…laughing?”

“You know-you know the funniest p-part?” You stammered through giggles. “When this all happened to you, it was special effects. Fake blood. You-” You gasped through a laugh. “It wasn’t real. You didn’t-You didn’t even really get hurt.”

Steve was silent for a long moment before speaking.

“Okay, you lost me.”

You shook your head, tipping it against the cold floor.

“I’m not… I’m not a psychic. I’m not like El. I can’t see the future. I watched it on a TV show. Like, _actually_ watched it, not like…telepathically. I _mean_ , I watched it on a streaming service that I _pay_ for, and you….you weren’t _Steve Harrington_ , you were an _actor_. An actor _playing_ him. And I don’t know if I got hit in the head and I’m stuck in some coma, or if this is a psychotic break, or if I’m in some twisted fanfiction, or if this is somehow all real, but now I’m stuck here. And I…” you trailed off, tears welling in your eyes. “I wanted to save you. All of you. I thought I could…do something. Which was stupid, because now I’m going to die down here, anyway, and I’ve probably fucked everything up beyond repair.”

Steve didn’t speak, and guilt washed over you.

“I’m sorry for lying, for pretending, but I…I figured you’d think I was nuts if I told you the truth. So I lied. And I don’t know what’s gonna happen, now. Whoever’s writing this story, I haven’t watched the ending.”

He still didn’t say anything, and you craned your neck up.

“Steve?”

“Still here,” he said.

You closed your eyes.

“I sound crazy. And now you think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said. “A year ago, I might have. But now…I guess I’ve seen stranger things.”

A laugh burst out before you could stop it.

“What? What was funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing. You just …it’s nothing.”

“We’re gonna get out of here. Robin, and Dustin, and Erica, they’re gonna find us.”

“We can’t know that.”

“Nobody ever gets to know anything. That’s life. It’s bullshit, but it is. Now you’re like the rest of us. Welcome to the world,” he said. You smiled, warmth filling your aching insides and dulling the pain.

“You really believe they’ll find us?”

“I do,” he said. “Maybe _I’m_ the crazy one.”

“Maybe we’ve both lost our minds.”

“At least we’re in it together, then,” he said, and you smiled.

A buzzer sounded, and the door cracked open. You and Steve angled up to see Ozerov enter with a few guards, chuckling when he saw you.

“Where were you two going?” He asked. He made a tsk tsk noise and gestured to his guards, who crossed the room and roughly lifted you and Steve, settling the chair upright. A white-coated man - you didn’t need to see his bag and needles to recognize him - set up on the table, and you stiffened. How could you have forgotten about the truth serum? Blame it on the torture, you supposed.

Ozerov knelt in front of you.

“Try telling the truth this time, yes? It will make your visit with Dr. Zharkov less painful,” he said. He stroked the cuts on your cheek, and you clenched your teeth, flinching as he traced the bruises.

“Eat my ass,” you said, holding his gaze. He chuckled and straightened, gesturing at Dr. Zkarhov, who brought over the syringe. You stiffened and squirmed, though it was no use, and craned your neck away from the needle.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you pleaded. He smiled, and Dr. Zharkov lifted the needle to your throat.

“No, no, no-” He plunged the needle in, and cold flushed over you. All that was left to do was wait for it to kick in.

* * *

You sat with your head tipped back against Steve’s as the drug wove through your blood, settling like a warm blanket.

“You know, this stuff is…actually pretty good,” you said.

“Yeah, I…I like it, too,” Steve said.

“Is it supposed to be that good?”

Steve snickered. “Maybe there’s just something wrong with us.”

“Oh, definitely.” Your lips quirked up in a wide grin that was seemingly stuck to your face. “Definitely something wrong.”

“They messed up the drug,” Steve said.

“Morons.”

“Yeah, morons.”

“Morons! Hey, _morons_!”

“ _Morons_! You messed up the drug!”

The door buzzed again, and Ozerov and his crew walked in, Dr. Zharkov on their heels. Zharkov unwrapped a leather bag on the table, revealing an array of tools that looked even more terrifying in real life. Especially since these were _actual_ blades.

“Oh, no, yeah, we can skip all that,” you said, panic rising.

“Let’s try this again, yes?” Ozerov asked. “Who do you work for?”

“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you. Unfortunately, no one.”

Steve cackled, and a giggle slipped out of your own mouth.

“And uh, he works for Scoops. Scoops Ahoy. You know, USS Butterscotch.”

“It’s out of this world!” Steve announced.

“How did you find us?”

“I didn’t. Or, like…not technically,” you said.

“It’s kind of a long story, man,” Steve said. You giggled. Ozerov said something in Russian, and Zharkov pulled a tool from his mat, bringing it over.

“What is that shiny little toy?” Steve asked.

“Oh, nope, no, no, thank you,” you said. Zkarkov grabbed your bound hand and lifted a finger, placing the metal against your nail. You squirmed, unable to get away.

“Wait, wait-wait-”

“It was me!” Steve yelled. Zkarkov paused. “It was me. I cracked your code, and I found the elevator.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Steve!”

“It was me who found you.”

“Now is _not_ the time to be a hero!” You said. You met Ozerov’s gaze. “He’s lying. It was me. I saw it. I saw everything. Before you even knew what was going to happen, I did.”

“Oh, a witch, then?” He said with a laugh.

“I know what you’re doing down here. With the gate. I know you lost two of your scientists. One of their names is Alexei, right?” Ozerov stiffened at the name, and you tugged the thread.

“I can tell you where he is. I can get you to him if you just…wait a minute.”

“Wait? Wait, for what?” Ozerov asked.

And with the perfect timing only reserved for such a situation, the alarm sounded above you. You let out a laugh, tipping your head back in relief.

“Waiting for that,” you said. And then Dustin burst through the door with a taser made for a giant, slamming it into one of the guards. Erica and Robin followed her in, Erica with a taser and Robin with a knife. She crossed the room to you and Steve, cutting the bindings.

“You guys alright?” She asked.

“I’m okay,” Steve said, “but Y/N was beaten pretty bad. We need to get out of here.”

“That’s the plan, dingus,” she said affectionately, to which Steve grinned. He came around to you and wound an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You leaned against him, unable to carry most of your weight, but he didn’t let you fall.

“Time to go!” Dustin announced from the doorway. Erica and Robin headed for him, and Steve helped you cross the room, slow but steady.

“Just hold on,” Steve said softly, arms tightening around you, “I’ve got you.”

The others led you to the small transport vehicle, and you and Steve climbed into the back with Robin. You dipped against Steve’s shoulder, grateful for the moment of rest, and the engine rumbled to life.

“Time to blow this popsicle stand,” Robin said, tugging the back door shut and sealing the three of you into the rear compartment. The cart lurched forward as Dustin floored the gas, and soon you were flying down the hall.

You were only heading for another fight - the biggest battle - but you let yourself have the moment of victory. There likely wouldn’t be another for a while, and you’d be damned if you didn’t enjoy the calm before the storm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, come talk to me on tumblr @ harringtown :)


	4. part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter cares not for plot development (well maybe a teeny bit but not really) and is interested only in self indulgence! next chapter is for action! as always, this fic is dedicated to the amazing @daddystevee <33

The drugs had worn off enough to let you think clearly, and you directed your fellow escapees to the movie theater first, avoiding an inevitable run-in with the Russians patrolling outside the mall. You sent Robin to get a change of clothes for the three of you - your clothes were stained with blood, and the sailor costumes were like a neon sign - and proceeded to stumble back into the giggles when you remembered what movie you were seeing. Robin left after giving Dustin and Erica stern looks and _a keep an eye on those two_.

You and Steve were shoved into seats by Dustin and Erica, far too close to the screen, but Steve had found popcorn, and that was enough to satisfy you. You started shoveling handfuls as Steve stared up at the screen, mouth hanging open and brows furrowed.

“Where did you even get this?” You handed him the bag, and he gave a half shrug. 

“Trash,” he said. “Not bad, right?”

You opened your mouth and let the chewed up kernels fall onto your lap, gaping at Steve in horror. So, _that_ was why he and Robin had thrown up. _Uh oh_.

“What the fuck, Steve!” You hissed.

“It’s not bad!” He jerked a chin at the screen. “Now, shh. I’m trying to watch.”

You narrowed your eyes and shifted to face him.

“Marty McFly makes it back to the future, and you think Doc dies, but he doesn’t. Also, his mom was _absolutely_ trying to fuck him. Oh, and he and Jennifer have kids. And there are two more movies after this,” you said with a villainous smirk. Steve inhaled sharply.

“You did _not_ just-”

“Spoil the movie?” You arched a brow. He fell back against his seat, arms crossed, and pouted like a petulant child.

“Not cool, dude.” But he seemed to forgive and forget in that instant, sitting up again. “Wanna hit up the water station on the way in? I could use, like, three gallons.”

His words reminded you of your own thirst, your tongue dry, and saliva thick in your throat. You swallowed drily and nodded. You both stood and ducked out of the theater, silent as you found the water fountain, and Steve crumpled against it, drinking like he’d gone without for weeks. After three long minutes, you nudged him out of the way and could no longer blame him for his vigor. You’d fallen head over heels in love with water and wished never to be parted.

“Hey, you gotta come check this out,” Steve called from somewhere off to the left. Though you could have happily continued drinking, you still weren’t clear-headed, and if he’d seen something cool, you’d be damned if you missed it. You wiped your mouth and joined him, tipping your head back.

“Check…check this…beautiful,” Steve murmured, swaying.

The glass ceiling above Starcourt was line with white light, twinkling against the blue and black sky. The lights seemed to dance above you, winking in and out of sight, intoxicating in their intricacies. Beautiful.

“Oh, wow….that’s….” You turned slowly, craning your head to watch the light show, unaware of the twisting and turning of your stomach until bile was crawling up your throat. You lurched forward at the same time as Steve, scrambling toward the door with a stick-person woman on it and pushing through. The bright lights and colorful tiles and decorations only made you sicker, and you and Steve dropped to your knees in front of the toilets, retching until your churning stomachs quieted.

* * *

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you grab the popcorn from the trash.” You sat with your back against the tiled wall with your legs sprawled out in front of you, feeling empty and achy but more like yourself. The drug’s effects had diminished, and you no longer wanted to giggle or spill your secrets.

“Didn’t notice on our way in, or didn’t notice when you…” _when you watched it._

“Second one.”

“The popcorn,” he said, “was definitely not a good call.”

“Not at all.”

“But I still don’t think I deserved that level of treachery.”

“A big anti-spoiler guy, huh?”

“It’s, like, one of the worst things you can do to someone.”

“You remember getting tortured today, right?” You asked, lips turning up, though Steve couldn’t see it from his stall. He didn’t find the joke funny, though. Silence fell between you, and you drew your knees up.

“It should have been me,” he said. “Who got hurt.”

“I’m fine. I really am.” A lie; you hurt everywhere, had a raging headache, and your right eye throbbed painfully to the beat of your heart. But that didn’t mean you’d rather it be Steve with the bruises.

Luckily, he didn’t fight you. It was unlikely he hadn’t seen through the lie, but you appreciated not having to argue. Obviously, you weren’t okay, but there was no changing it now.

“Do you think we puked it all up?” Steve asked. You could only see his legs sticking out from beside the toilet, one sock pushed up a little higher than the other, sneakers still, somehow, clean.

“Dunno. Ask me something.”

“Okay. When was the last time, uh, you peed your pants?”

You snorted. “I could have just given you the answer, and we could have skipped the question.”

“I asked before? Or, not before, I guess. When…”

“Yeah. You did.”

“You said before that not everyone makes it through this,” he said.

“Steve-” you warned.

“You can’t seriously expect me to not want to know who. You’re telling me some of my friends are going to die. I need to know.”

You exhaled. “Not technically friends.”

“What?”

“Billy Hargrove,” you said. You left out Hopper; you had the beginning of a plan on that one, but not something that was formed enough to talk about. But you believed you could save him; believed he could save himself. You just had to work out the semantics and, somehow, tell him.

“Billy Hargrove? How?”

“He sacrificed himself.”

“Hargrove?” Steve snorted. “No way. That guy couldn’t do something selfless even if it got him a lifetime supply of Marlboro’s.”

“He did,” you said. “For El. In the end, he did the right thing.”

“Doesn’t sound like Billy.”

“He had a rough go of it,” you said. “Not that that’s an excuse. At all. But I don’t think he ever had a chance, you know? He was all alone. Nobody showed him his other options.”

“So he ended up a massive dick,” Steve said.

“So, he ended up a dick.”

Silence fell between you, and you stared at the red metal of the stall as if it might go translucent and show you the boy on the other side. You leaned forward to tap on the stall, stealing his line.

“Steve? Did you just OD in there?”

“No,” he said, “just thinking.”

“About?”

“What else have you seen?”

The question was loaded, with an unspoken _what have you see of me_ attached, and you were careful answering it.

“It started the day or two before Barb die-disappeared. I saw more of you…afterward, with Nancy-” you kept tripping over your words, but there wasn’t exactly an easy or non-awkward way to divulge people’s secrets, secrets you were never supposed to know. Low moments that no one should have to see. “And with Dustin and the others.”

“You saw what I did to Nancy, then? The…tag on the theater.”

Your silence was answer enough.

“And Jonathan?”

You wished the answer wasn’t yes.

“Yeah,” you said, “I saw it all.”

He went quiet again, and you carefully pushed yourself across the linoleum, sliding beneath the stall divider and into Steve’s.

“That’s gross,” he said halfheartedly.

“Thank god for Robin and The Gap, then,” you said.

Sadness and shame contorted his features, and he shifted to sit across from you against the opposite divider, long legs stretched out in front of him. If you moved your leg, it’d hit his. His gaze stayed on the red metal, lips turned downward.

“I also saw you risk your life for Dustin. And the kids. Nancy and Jonathan, they’re in this fight because their brothers are. But you’re just here because it’s the right thing to do. You may not have been the best person before, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a good one now.”

His brows furrowed, and he still didn’t look at you.

“I’ve…hurt a lot of people. That doesn’t just go away because I give out free scoops of ice cream, or keep Henderson from killing himself.”

“You can’t change it,” you said. “You can’t change what you’ve done or who you’ve hurt. But you can decide to be better tomorrow. That’s all being good is. Deciding to be better tomorrow than you were today.”

“You really believe that?”

You nodded, exhaled, and tipped your head back against the metal divider, stomach hollow from all the puking, thoughts mostly settled but still dancing just out of reach. The drugs were finally wearing off, leaking out of you.

“Maybe I’m biased because you were always my favorite character, but…you _have_ gotten better. I’ll admit, in the beginning, you were…”

“Kind of a dick?” He supplied. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, kind of a dick. But after what happened with Nancy…you could have walked away. But you didn’t. You got the crap beaten out of you, and you saved those kids, and you keep saving them. You’re _good_ , Steve Harrington.” 

He fiddled with the tie on his uniform and finally met your gaze. You could tell he wanted to believe you, and believing was half the battle. He could make it the rest of the way.

He shifted, knees knocking into your thigh, but neither of you moved away.

“I know it’s only because you watched me on some show, but…no one’s ever paid that much attention to me. No one’s ever cared enough.”

“They should,” you said. “You’re kind of amazing.”

He closed his eyes, lips quirking up ever so slightly.

“Does it weird you out? That I…what I’ve seen? How I saw it?”

“I mean, yeah,” he said, “but not in a bad way. It’s kind of…cool. Weird, but cool.”

You laughed.

“So, favorite character, huh?” He asked, waggling his brows. You grinned, nudging his knee with your foot.

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

“No promises.”

“I regret telling you, then.”

“Oh, I don’t. Not at all. Compliment me whenever you want.”

You arched a brow, and he waved a hand, fishing, meaning _right now_. You rolled your eyes, but you were still giggly and drugged enough to go along with it.

“Fine. You’re…brave.”

Steve nodded, content. “I’ll take it.”

“And you’re resourceful.”

“I was going for hot, but that works.”

“That, too,” you said, cheeks warming. “There’s a reason they call you ‘ _the hair._ ’ Though, maybe not right now.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” He asked, raking his fingers through it with a frown.

“Other than the blood clots?”

“Fair point.” He crinkled his nose. “But you do, then? Think I’m…” he waggled his brows again.

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

You weren’t sure when you’d bent together, but your faces were inches apart, legs pressed against each other. Your heart pounded like a kick drum, so loud you were surprised Steve couldn’t hear it.

“You know, when this is all over, I’d like to take you to see a movie you _don’t_ know the ending of,” he said, voice low, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.

“I’d like that.”

His hands climbed to settle on your cheeks, eyes bright and alive despite the day’s events. None of it mattered then, with his hands on your skin, breath warm on your lips. None of it mattered with him so close, not even the dirty bathroom floor or the fact that you’d both just thrown up, though it definitely should have.

He kissed you softly at first, careful of the injuries you forgot about the moment his lips touched yours. Your lips parted against his, and you sank deeper into him, hands sliding up to his hair, fingers threading through the wavy curls. They were softer than you’d expected, and you gave a gentle tug, drawing Steve closer. A low groan sounded from the back of his throat, and his tongue flicked against your teeth, all heat.

The bathroom door swung open, smacking hard against the wall, and you broke apart, the throbbing in your lips telling you that you’d reopened the cut; you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Robin stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, an amused grin on her lips.

“You shouldn’t have erased my whiteboard,” she said pointedly, “you finally got a point.”

Steve groaned and sat back, and you quickly put yourself back together, brain shorted out from the kiss. Robin tugged a backpack off her shoulders and came into the bathroom, unzipping it and tugging out stacks of clothes.

“If you can keep your hands off each other for a few minutes, I’ve got fresh clothes,” she said.

“You’re never going to let this go, are you?” Steve asked, pushing himself to his feet. He held a hand out to you, and you took it, climbing unsteadily and painfully up.

“You two, making out in the bathroom while we’re hiding from Russians that are trying to kill us? Yeah, no chance.” She tossed Steve his bundle and gave him a pointed look. He arched his brows in question. She gestured toward the handicap stall and shooed him in to change. Once he was inside, she handed you your clothes with a knowing smile.

“Should have known I couldn’t trust Dustin and Erica to watch you two,” she said. “You’re worse than toddlers.”

“Thank you,” Steve said.

“Not a compliment!” She retorted.

And though you were nearing the finish line, near the point of no return, nearing a bucketload of hurt and loss, you didn’t feel all that worried, not then. For that moment, you were content. Happy. The moment you left the bathroom, the real world would slam back into relevancy, but for now, you were happy.


	5. part 5

Rather than risk a run-in with the Russians by fleeing a mall you’ll only have to return to minutes later, you directed Steve, Robin, Erica, and Dustin back to Scoops, the five of you hidden behind the thin paper wall separating the back room from the counter. Safer than being tucked behind one of the other bars, but not secure enough to calm any of you.

You sat in a line against the wall, all silent and still. Steve slid his hand into yours, threading your fingers together and squeezing as footsteps squeaked across the linoleum outside. You didn’t have to see them to know they wielded guns bigger than your torso.

Robin had an arm around Dustin, who was trying to keep his cool, but the hard set of his jaw told you he was just as nervous as you. You prayed you’d made the right move by pulling them in here; you prayed El and the others arrived quickly.

A rumbling sound carried over the Russian’s slow footsteps, followed by a question in Russian, and a crash and crunch as the car resting in the middle of the food court was thrown into them. Glass and metal crunched and shattered in a cacophony of chaos, the four of you flinching violently at the noise and pressing back against the thin wall. The men went silent as they were crushed, and you were the first on your feet and pushing through the door to the main counter. The others followed you, hesitant, their fear falling away as they caught sight of their rescuers.

Standing on the second floor, leaning over the railing, were Mike, El, Lucas, Max, Will, Nancy, and Jonathan, their gazes scanning the court before landing on all of you behind the counter. El’s lips quirked up in a grin at the sight of you, and you remembered suddenly waking in the woods, El and Max’s faces above you.

“Holy shit,” Robin said.

“Holy shit, indeed,” Steve agreed, and the four of you moved around the Scoops counter to the central court, the others descending the broken escalator and joining you on the first floor.

“You flung that thing like a hot wheel!” Dustin exclaimed, throwing his arms around El and Mike, who hugged him back.

“Lucas?” Erica asked.

“What are you doing here?” Her brother retorted, brows furrowing and features lined with confusion.

“Ask them, it’s their fault,” she said, pointing at you, Steve, and Robin.

“True, yeah. Totally true. Absolutely our fault,” Steve said.

“Mine, technically,” you said. Both you and Robin were the strangers here. Still, even Nancy and Jonathan seemed to vaguely recognize her, their gazes moving and settling on you.

“And you are…” Nancy said.

“Long story,” Steve said. “You’re going to want to take a seat for that one.” Robin nodded in agreement. Your little crew had had a few days to adjust to your reality and presence, to get used to the weird, knowing comments, and knew to listen to your instructions, as you’d seen where their steps took them. But the rest of them were still characters in their own story, a story that hadn’t interloped with yours yet.

“I’ll explain in a minute.” You moved around them and searched for El, images of her screaming beneath a hot knife flickering behind your eyes. She’d wandered a few feet away, swaying slightly, unnoticed by the others, still too focused on catching up.

“El,” you said, and she turned to face you, recognition dawning in her eyes.

“You…” she said. “In the woods.”

You nodded and gestured at her leg.

“You need to get that out, and you need to do it now.”

Her brows furrowed in question, and a hand touched your arm; Steve had come up behind you. The others, drawn by his movement, gathered around you in various states of distrust and disbelief.

“How do you know about-” Nancy started, interrupted by El, who gasped, knees buckling. You caught her before she fell, lowering her to the ground and giving her to Mike. Jonathan glanced in the direction of the food counters, and you knew where his mind was going; you knew, because the choice had been written for him.

“It won’t work,” you said. He frowned, meeting your gaze, lips parting to protest. “It’s like…a living thing. You can’t cut it out.”

“How do you know?” Mike asked, lifting his eyes from El, concern woven into his features.

“Because I’ve seen it happen before,” you said. There wasn’t any more time for explanation, not right then, as El stiffened and tipped her head back, a scream tearing through her lips.

“It’s now or never, El,” you said, kneeling in front of her. She didn’t seem all that confused at your presence, wasn’t afraid or guarded. Instead, she nodded, gritting her teeth and letting her focus settle on her leg and it’s bulging, red gash.

She held her hand out over it, fingers trembling with the intensity, and she tensed, the air tightening in the room. A scream stayed stuck to her mouth as she tugged, and after an agonizing minute, a clump of red and black slipped out of her shin and into the air. With a final shriek, El threw it across the floor, where it bounced with a sickening sound.

The creature started to crawl, and out of nowhere, a boot slammed against it, splattering it against the tiles.

You lifted your eyes and found Hopper, Joyce, and Murray Bauman standing a few yards away, Hopper and Joyce’s faces lined with worry.

And with their arrival, ever so closer you moved to the final battle.

* * *

The reunions were bittersweet, and your chest ached painfully as you watched El tuck herself into Hopper’s arms, the images of him and the exploding gate plastered to your lids. Steve had taken it upon himself to explain you, doing a surprisingly good job at making it make sense, and it didn’t make any sense - never had - which made him all that more impressive.

The others took it with varying degrees of acceptance, with Max and El at the top, as they remembered clearly finding you passed out in the woods, mumbling names that weren’t theirs.

The plan was gone over, and goodbyes were said, and soon, the large group was splitting into three; yours to Weathertop, Griswold family to Murray’s, and Joyce, Murray, and Hopper down into the base.

Before you headed out to join your friends - you realized suddenly that that’s what they were, now, not characters, not figments of imagination, but _friends_ , friends who were in danger - you pulled Hopper aside. He was the least accepting of your story, but you’d expected that. Best to go with blistering honesty.

“If you don’t listen to me, you’re going to die when the gate closes,” you said. The words came out rushed and rough, but effective, making Hopper stiffen, his eyes narrowing.

“I know I sound crazy, trust me,” you continued. “And you can either listen to me or not listen to me, but if you do, I think I can save your life. I think I can save everyone.”

He glanced toward El, tucked into Mike’s side, still weak, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. He met your gaze again, and you could see the desire to shrug off your words, and the underlying wondering, wondering if there was something to what you said. He had more to lose if he didn’t listen, and he seemed to realize it, weighing the pros and cons and settling on you as the only option.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked.

It was a crack theory, or perhaps too many rewatches and too much late-night analysis, or maybe just too much investment in the story. Still, now that you were here, it was the only shot you had.

“Before Joyce closes the gate, you’re going to jump through it,” you said.

It was true that the gate was closed - allegedly - when Joyce turned the key, the machine splintered. But it was also true that the last time it had been closed, it hadn’t really closed at all. It was also true that the Russians hadn’t been stopped, had simply packed up and disappeared. They weren’t likely to give up, and if they didn’t give up, the door to the Upside Down would remain cracked open.

You had no way of knowing whether it would work, whether El would be able to open it back up all the way and rescue him. But it was the only chance you had - the only chance any of them had.

Hopper might die in there, anyways, and he knew it just as well as you. But you also knew he’d die for sure if he didn’t jump. It was a risk, the only one left to take.

And so, Hopper promised he would.

* * *

You and the Scoops Troop reached Weathertop quickly, the Toddfather moving surprisingly quick, and the moment you crested the hill, you told Steve to stop. He did as you asked, only questioning once the car was in park.

“Dustin, Erica, you stay here,” you said. The pair climbed out somewhat reluctantly, and Steve arched a brow.

“They’re gonna need our help back there,” you said. Robin crinkled her nose but refastened her seatbelt, in without question. Steve, having gotten more of the story from you, cursed, but put the car in drive. He knew what awaited you at the mall, lurking in the parking lot, ready to block your friends, ready to kill them if he had to. 

“ _Fucking_ Hargrove,” he said, and punched the gas.

* * *

“Foot on the gas, Steve!” You yelled, gripping the dash with your palms outspread, peering through the glass at the others, and at Billy, engine revving.

“As in, hit him?” Steve retorted.

“As in, hit the shit out of him!”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

“Don’t think they’re kidding,” Robin added, steadying herself as the car tore through the parking lot and around poles.

Steve rolled his neck, jaw set, and pushed harder on the gas, the car accelerating more quickly than you expected, the speedometer edging past seventy, eighty-

The impact did nothing for your already-aching injuries, and you swallowed a cry as the cars crunched metal, the Toddfather swinging out; just add whiplash to the ever-growing list, you supposed.

“You guys okay?” Steve asked, breathing heavily, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

“Ask me tomorrow?”

A snarl sounded from the direction of the mall, and the three of you pushed yourself up and over the convertible top to get a better look. The Mind Flayer - about a thousand times more terrifying now that he wasn’t a CGI monster - crawled over the top of Starcourt, the neon lights illuminating its tar-black skin, bone and sinewy muscle rippling as it moved.

“Mother fucker,” you breathed, mind going blank, the well-known script slipping out of reach. A honk dragged you back to the present, and you looked to see Jonathan at the wheel of the now-started hatchback, gesturing for the three of you.

“Let’s go,” Nancy called, and you were out of the car and climbing into the back of the Wheeler’s new car in an instant. You, Steve, and Robin folded yourself into the back section, you and Steve pressed together against one side. Had it been under different circumstances, the close contact would have made you giddy. But right now, all you cared about was the monster lumbering behind you; the one that was real, the one that could kill you, and would certainly try.

“What happens next?” Steve asked, voice low in your ear. You glanced out the back window, the Mind Flayer trying - and failing - to keep pace with the car. In minutes, it would turn back, and you would turn to follow it. But for now, there was nothing to do but run and wait for the other pieces to fall into play. That is, if you hadn’t already messed up the timeline, if you hadn’t already screwed things up past the point of control.

You met his gaze with a tiny smile and said, “ _Susie_.”

He and Robin looked at each other, then at you.

“Susie?” They asked. And like clockwork, feedback whined from one of the many walkie talkies in the car, static preceding a voice.

If you were honest, calling Susie was no longer necessary. You’d let Hopper in on the secret when you told him your plan, and he knew precisely what numbers he needed to punch in.

But that didn’t mean you were about to miss one of the best parts of the season.

“Susie, do you copy?”

“Susie?” Steve asked. You grinned, but the happiness was short-lived, a growl thundering from behind you. The beast was drawing closer, and though you knew it’d turn around, you were no longer all that secure in that knowledge. Maybe it wouldn’t turn; maybe you’d be crushed beneath the metal of the Wheelers car.

Dustin and Susie chattered, going through the expected motions, and you only dragged your attention from the monster chasing the car when she said, “I want to hear it.”

“Hear it? Hear what?” Robin asked. You grinned.

“Just shhh. Wait for it.”

“Wait for-”

“Shit,” Dustin said over the radio, pausing. And then he began to sing. “ _Turn around…look at what you see…_ ” His voice was hesitant and embarrassed, but the boy could hold a tune.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be _kidding_ me,” Steve said with a groan.

“ _This_? _This_ is what we were waiting for?” Robin asked.

“Good shit, right?”

The pair exchanged a look and rolled their eyes. Despite the serenade, it was hard not to keep looking out the back window at the quickly approaching monster. For everyone else, at least, those who didn’t know the beast wouldn’t reach you. As for you, you bobbed your head to the duet, a smile lifting your lips.

“ _Written on the pages is, the answer to a_ …” the pair crooned through the walkie.

“ _Never ending story_ ,” you joined, singing to yourself, pumping a fist in the air.

“You picked a good one, Harrington,” Robin said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I know,” he said, without any trace he was joking. He bumped your shoulder with his.

“I take it the singing means we’re not gonna die?”

“For now,” you said. Steve’s lips quirked up.

Dustin and Susie’s song came to an end, and she fed him the numbers they didn’t need - you’d take the blame if it came to it - and the Mind Flayer turned, heading in the other direction, back toward the mall.

Back toward the end of the road, the end of the story.


	6. part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plot twist, the first half of this fic was set up for me to go off and fix shit in the second half! act II of this series will start in a few days! as always, this fic is for the lovely and talented @daddystevee who gave me the idea and has been invaluable in helping me plan and write this au!!!

The Wheeler’s new Ford carried itself well, making it back to Starcourt in what you were fairly sure was record time, and was parked half-hazardly outside the mall’s entrance. You and the others were inside in moments, hauling heavy boxes of fireworks, splitting them - and yourselves - up. You, Steve, and Robin set up camp on the second floor, tucked behind the railing and a large plant. The others dispersed throughout the second level, lighting fuses and letting them fly.

“Flay this, you ugly piece of shit!” Lucas chucked one into the creature’s mouth, and it wailed, jerking away, injured but not slowed. The fireworks, exploding in every possible direction, only confused it, sending it careening into banisters and over pillars, shaking the floors.

Robin lit a firecracker in Steve’s hands, and he threw it with all the grace of an ex-jock, yelling - also, with all the grace of an ex-jock - “Hey asshole! Over here!”

The shots landed true, but the creature wasn’t slowing; it wouldn’t, and you all knew it. Right now, you were jockeying for time. Waiting for Hopper, Joyce, and Murray to complete their part.

It had gone a lot quicker as a show. But in reality, the fight dragged on, the crackling of explosions making your ears ring, the heat only worsening the anxiety and fear coursing through you. It was bright and loud and never-ending.

But you’d keep the Mind Flayer off El until you couldn’t anymore. Her job was to keep Billy distracted; her job was to bring him back from the pit long enough to save her. Only she could pull the Mind Flayer’s plug and disconnect him from the network.

Billy Hargrove was not a good person, but even bad people didn’t deserve to die like that. More so, Max didn’t deserve to have to see it. To watch family - even estranged - torn apart. Especially when he made the right move, if only in his last moments.

Ironically enough, if he hadn’t jumped in El’s way, he might have survived. Disconnected from the hive mind, the Mind Flayer shoved from his veins, he wouldn’t have died with it, might have gone on towards the path of redemption. But no one would ever know.

He was the one you couldn’t save. Hopper was a long shot, but one you believed in. It wouldn’t be easy, but you thought it was possible. But in this case, you couldn’t see any way to save him. And you wanted so badly to keep them all from the burning, scalding, sharp pain of loss.

What was the point of it all if you couldn’t? Why get trapped in some fever dream if you can’t change the ending, can’t fix all the broken pieces? 

The puzzle pieces slid into place at once, making you drop the unlit firecracker in your hands and take a step back.

There was one way. But they weren’t going to like it; Steve _really_ wasn’t going to like it; honestly, _you_ hated it.

Doing the right thing really, _really_ sucks sometimes. Really _fucking_ sucks.

“Steve.” He turned, the adrenaline and bright eyes from the fight replaced with concern at the look on your face. He looked away long enough to chuck his firecracker, moving to you, hands on your shoulders, drawing you closer to speak through the chaos around you.

“You okay?” He called, barely audible over the explosions. You nodded, hands moving to his cheeks, careful of the light bruises dusting his cheeks. His hair was mussed and messy, and his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat from the exertion, but he was still beautiful.

It was neither the time nor the place, but it may have been the _last_ time and place, so you tugged him by the collar and kissed him beneath the bright detonations and thundering roars. His hands moved to your waist, and he drew you closer, and you allowed yourself five seconds, just five seconds to sink into him.

Then the five seconds ended, and you pulled back, leaning to his ear to whisper, “I’m sorry.” You pushed away from him, and he lost his balance, unable to grab for you when you turned and bolted toward the escalators. You dropped and slid down the slick metal of the middle section, Steve and Robin’s voices joining the noise, but far enough away that you didn’t look back.

You hit the floor at a run, darting around debris and heading for the hunched figures of Billy and El. El’s hand rested on Billy’s cheek, both still amidst the burning world. El said something you couldn’t hear, but you knew what she said, knew what it did. And then Billy stood, the black veins in his skin slinking away and disappearing, the blankness in his eyes turning to rage as he faced the Mind Flayer with clenched fists. El scrambled back and away, eyes locked onto the creature, as everyone else’s was.

He faced it with no fear, finding his peace in that single second, and when the Mind Flayer shot a spiked tentacle at him, he was ready for it.

He wasn’t ready for you, slamming into him like a linebacker, shoving him out of the way and onto the floor. The spikes sliced you open, bringing with them pain so significant you almost couldn’t feel it; like there weren’t enough nerve endings to handle the capacity, like your body just checked itself out.

The floor rocked, and you smiled even as you fell, because _they’d done it_. The last thing you saw before you closed your eyes was the Mind Flayer, falling with you.

* * *

No one moved but Billy, who launched toward you - the stranger who just died for him - and knelt beside you, your eyes closed, body still, grabbing you by the shoulders.

“Why did you do that? Why the hell did you do that?” He yelled, the anger rising and falling in the same second, shame and sadness numbing the red hot rage and stilling him. He sat back, practically scrambled back, away from the good deed he didn’t deserve. So stupid, so incredibly stupid; he did not deserve your sacrifice. He deserved to die with the Mind Flayer, instead of you.

* * *

Steve practically fell off the escalator in an attempt to reach you, but he was too late. He slammed to a halt a few feet from you and Billy; Billy, who had no right to be near you; Billy, who was supposed to be the one that died. Not you; never you.

Robin reached him a beat later and grabbed his arm, trying to comfort him, but he yanked out of her grip. He felt suspended in the air like he was watching it all from above - you, face slack and Billy, staring at his hands, and El, on her knees, and everyone else, watching, just watching. A sound somewhere between a scream and a cry rang out, and it takes him a moment to realize it was him making it.

He couldn’t look at you without bile clawing its way up his throat, without tears pricking painfully at the back of his eyes, so he settled his focus elsewhere. He decided on Billy, who should have been on the ground right now, not you. Billy, who was supposed to die.

“It should have been you.” His anger - raw and buzzing like electricity down a wire - pushed him in Billy’s direction. Billy lifted his head, climbing to his feet just in time for Steve to slam into him and start hitting. But Billy knew how to fight, and Steve, as proven, did not. Even if he did, he was too bogged down with loss and anger and pain to throw a decent punch.

“It should have been you!” He said, voice animalistic. He’d swallowed so much sadness and so much pain his words slurred, practically dripped with hatred and exhaustion. He tried in vain to hit Billy, threw punches that the other boy caught, and fought until his gaze accidentally skimmed past you on the tile, and he went limp. Billy grabbed him by the shoulders, but Steve was nowhere near capable of being helpful, so Billy lowered him down, still gripping him tightly.

Steve hated Billy Hargrove, hated him with a ferocity he didn’t know he was capable of, but he could no longer drag his thoughts together long enough to care about anything but you. So, he didn’t pull away, didn’t do anything but sit stiff and still until his body stops trembling.

The rest was a blur for Steve, who was led out of the mall by Nancy, who couldn’t look at him, and was directed to one of the ambulances and an EMT who checked him out and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

He refused to watch the policemen and firemen duck in and out of the building, so he let his gaze travel to the sky above him.

White flakes came down in flurries, but Steve wasn’t sure if it was snow or ash.

* * *

**ACT II Teaser ‘Trailer’**

When you woke, you knew from the soreness in your unused muscles that you’d been asleep for a long time. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, and you had to wipe the crust from them, joints cracking with each movement.

An image of the Mind Flayer flashed behind your eyes, and a hand shot to your chest, searching for where you’d been impaled. The spot ached, and when you slipped your fingers beneath the flimsy fabric of whatever clothes you adorned, you found a large, raised circular scar.

Your first thought, not all that logical, but you couldn’t blame yourself, considering you were dead - at least, you were pretty sure you’d died, but now, not so much - was _I’m back home_.

But the concrete beneath you was too stiff to be your couch, the darkness of the room too absolute to be your living room. You slowly rolled off the raised concrete bench and hit the cold floor, pushing yourself to your feet. You were sore, incredibly so, but in much better shape than you were before you last closed your eyes. How that was possible, you didn’t know. How long you’d been asleep, you also didn’t know. And as for where you were, you _really_ didn’t know.

The room was small, and you could brush the walls with your fingertips if you stood in the center and stretched out your arms. The dark didn’t lift, but as your eyes adjusted, you could make out the thick metal door opposite your ‘bed’ - bed, meaning, raised concrete slab.

A sick feeling crept into your gut, but you didn’t yet have the words to label where you were, just that odd sense that you _knew_.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, and you scrambled toward it, kneeling down and trying to peek through the sliver of light at the bottom of the door. You could only make out what appeared to be two sets of boots. They stopped outside your cell for a moment before moving down the hall.

“нет. не американец,” a voice said. You didn’t know Russian, but you’d watched the post-credit teaser enough times to know what it meant. _No, not the American._

_Well, fuck._

* * *

Across the ocean, tucked beneath the blankets in a room half-packed up, El jerked awake from what she thought was a nightmare. She’d seen you, asleep, curled awkwardly against a concrete bench. She searched her memories for another image, anything, any clues she could pull from the dream.

She couldn’t remember anything, save for one word: _Kamchatka_.

* * *

Across the divide, a tired man hunkered down for the night, grime still dripping from his weapon after another day of fighting.

They promised they’d find a way to get him out. He didn’t have much in the form of clocks or calendars, down there, but he knew it had been a long time. He knew that if they hadn’t come, they likely never would.

Tomorrow, he would decide what to do about that. But for tonight, Jim Hopper took refuge in the alternate dimension’s version of his cabin - grimy and gross, but the closest thing to home - and forced himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me and this fic on tumblr @harringtown :)


	7. part 7

The dreams El had night after night didn’t feel like dreams. The pitch-black dreamscape was like the void - as close to it as she’d gotten since the summer - but she no longer controlled it. Something else drew her in, and she was powerless to do anything but let it lead her and see what she was shown.

Up until a few nights ago, the images were too fuzzy and chaotic to focus in on, but she knew now that she was seeing you. Unconscious, curled up in a small room she didn’t recognize. At first, the dreams came with pain - like she was being impaled with a thousand needles - but it dissipated over time. She understood now it was healing; that she’d felt a fraction of what you had.

She also took that as proof that you were alive. How, she had no answers for. But she knew you were alive, knew it just as she knew _she_ was, because she _felt_ it, even if only in dreams.

A week before she and the Byers were scheduled to leave, the dream changed. She was no longer watching from above but standing behind you. The time hadn’t done you well, and even from the back, she could see that the clothes you wore hung loose, and your shoulders hunched with exhaustion.

That wasn’t what troubled her, though. Climbing up from your fingertips were black lines, twisting like vines. She couldn’t see whoever you faced in the doorway, but she heard your scream, voice raw from disuse. That was the last thing she heard before she woke.

* * *

El was hesitant to share what she’d seen; it would mean admitting she’d been seeing you for months, admitting she hadn’t figured out it was you, that you were alive. But now that she was sure, she couldn’t keep it quiet.

“I thought you couldn’t…access it anymore. After the gate closed,” Nancy said, arms crossed. She, Jonathan, Max, Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and El were gathered in the Wheeler’s basement. They hadn’t called Robin and Steve yet, which was probably for the best, seeing how badly he’d taken your death. No one heard from him for the first month, save for updates from Robin, who assured them through gritted teeth _he’d be okay, he just wasn’t yet._

They wouldn’t call him in until they were sure what El had seen was real, and that they could do something about it.

“I can’t,” El said, brows furrowing, trying to put it into words. She didn’t even really understand it. “I have these…dreams. I saw weird pictures, and I didn’t know what they were. But I saw Y/N.” She neglected to mention the weird vine-like lines she’d seen in her last dream; she still wasn’t convinced she’d actually seen it.

“Dreams?” Max asked, lifting her head, attention piqued. El nodded.

“Billy’s been having them, too,” she said. “He says it’s kinda like when he was flayed but different.”

“Wasn’t he, like, disconnected from the Mind Flayer?” Asked Lucas.

“Yeah,” Max said, deflating. Billy was still a touchy subject. He’d wreaked too much havoc and caused too much pain, made marks that couldn’t be erased through one attempted sacrifice.

“If the gate’s still…active,” Nancy said slowly, piecing it together as she spoke, “but not open, maybe you and Billy are getting glimpses into it. You were both part of the Upside Down. Maybe you still are.”

“I thought there _was_ no Upside Down anymore,” Lucas said.

“Well, we also thought Y/N was dead, and obviously that wasn’t true,” Dustin said.

“Do you know where they are? Are they being held somewhere?” Jonathan asked. El frowned.

“Kam…Kamchatka,” she said, the syllables thick and awkward on her tongue.

“Please tell me that’s not in Russia,” Dustin said. Jonathan grimaced.

“That’s Russia,” he said.

* * *

No one came for you in the week after you woke from what you were assuming was a coma, except for the guard who opened the door once a day to bring food and clean out the bucket they’d given you. But even he stopped coming in after the day before when he’d startled you out of sleep. One moment, you were curled on the concrete bench, and the next, you’d been right in front of him, pain and rage swirling inside you. The guard’s gaze had dropped to your hands, but before you were able to look down, he’d yelled for help, and his comrades had come, plunging a syringe into your arm.

A familiar - but not friendly - face showed itself on the eighth day, the guards dragging you to another concrete room, this one with a chair that had straps on the ankles and arms. You were sat down and clipped in, and the guards moved against the wall, the door opening to reveal commander Ozerov, who marched in looking far too pleased with himself.

“So much for dying under the mall, yes?” He asked. “I see you did not die, either.”

“How did I get here?” You asked, struggling against the binds though you knew they wouldn’t break. “What did you do to me? How am I…alive?”

“So many questions from someone tied to a chair,” he said, an amused smile tugging on his lips. “We brought you here, to Russia, when we fled the mall.”

“I was dead. The Mind Flayer…it killed me.”

“Not completely,” he said. “We saved you. We _healed_ you.”

“And then locked me in a cell,” you snapped, anger brimming.

“For your own protection,” he said. His gaze dropped to your hands, despite their bindings.

The chair itself, or even just the ankle cuffs, would have been enough. Where could you go? If you did escape the base, you’d stumble into a Russian winter, and die before reaching the nearest road. The extra binds were unnecessary. And yet, Ozerov seemed uneasy, like he knew something you didn’t.

“Why? Why save me? Why go through the trouble?” You asked, voice cracking from so much disuse. You hadn’t spoken this much in…well, you didn’t know how long.

“You are special,” he said. “Different than the others.”

“That’s an understatement,” you said. Did he believe you now? That you’d really been thrown into this non-reality the way you’d tried to tell him?

“You will remain here, under our protection.”

“ _Protection_?” You asked. Some protection. You were more likely to die of hypothermia in your cell than of anything else. “Let me go. Just…let me go home.”

You didn’t know where home was anymore. Getting back to your home, your world, didn’t seem possible, but you’d take anything at this point. Anything that wasn’t Kamchatka, Russia.

Ozerov smiled smugly, making a tsk tsk sound with his tongue.

“I am afraid that will not be possible.”

You tugged against the bindings, fear threatening to swallow you whole. No. This was supposed to be over. You’d made your sacrifice; why were you still being punished?

Just as quickly as the fear came, anger came with it, rage at being trapped again, after everything. You tugged against the straps again, and they snapped. You must have scraped your arms in the breaking of the binds because pain crawled up from your fingertips, hot and sharp.

Ozerov’s eyes went wide, and you swore you could see fear in them.

“Let me go,” you said again, kicking off the ankle binds and standing, throbbing hands clenched in fists at your sides.

“ _гва́рдия_ ,” he said, backing toward the door.

“I just want to go home,” you said, the fear and sadness and frustration swelling until it was too big to hold. You pushed toward Ozerov, hysteria rising, grabbing him by the wrists. His features contorted, and the pain leaked out of you at the touch.

The door buzzed and swung open, and Ozerov dropped to the floor, the fire slamming back into your arms as he fell. That same fear rose at the guard’s entrance, and you backed up until you hit the far wall, but there was nowhere to go, and in moments a syringe was in your arm, and the pain dissipated as the world went dark.

* * *

“Tell me what you saw again,” Steve said, leaning his forearms against the card table. He, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, El, Mike, Max, are sat around the table in the family video employee break room, Billy against one of the walls. Were Keith working, he’d protest vehemently to just a blatant disrespect of workspace, and inevitably get onto one of them about not watching the storefront, but it was a Thursday at ten PM, and Keith wasn’t there, so it didn’t really matter.

“Y/N, in a…I think it’s a cell. And a man. A guard,” El said.

“A Russian guard,” Mike added.

“Kamchatka,” Billy said. He seemed almost reluctant to speak - he and Steve weren’t on the best terms, though Billy wasn’t on excellent terms with any of them - and stood in the back. “I looked it up. The Kamchatka Peninsula. In east Russia.”

“Oh, and I’m guessing there was a sign with that name conveniently written on it?” Steve retorted.

“No,” Billy said, unimpressed. “They said it.”

“Oh.” Steve sat back, arms crossed, the tension between them palpable. “Whatever.”

“Even if we do know where it is, how the hell are we supposed to get there? It’s not like the US is on great terms with the Soviets,” Jonathan said.

“Plus, we didn’t have great luck last time we were in a Russian base,” Robin added.

“Are you seriously saying we shouldn’t go after them? Just…leave them there, to die? After what they did?” Steve asked, eyes blown, frustration leaking off him.

“No one’s saying that, Steve,” Nancy said gently. “But we have to be smart about this. We don’t have Hopper-” she stopped, gaze flicking to El, “we don’t have all the help we had before.”

“We made it in and out of that base without help,” Robin said. “We can do it again.”

“I’m going after them,” Steve said, not leaving an inch of room for argument.

“ _We’re_ going after them,” Billy said, surprising everyone in the room, including himself.

“Alright, field trip to the Soviet Union. What could go wrong?” Robin asked rhetorically. No one answered her, because they all knew that lots of things - probably everything - would, indeed, go wrong.

* * *

“So, let me get this straight,” Murray Bauman said, staring at the large group of kids and teens on the other side of his living room. “You want me to fly all ten of you into the Soviet Union, help you break into a heavily guarded Russian base, and break out a prisoner?”

The kids looked at one another, nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what we want,” Dustin said.

“That’s exactly what we want,” Max amended.

“You have a pilot’s license, don’t you? I saw photos of you in the back room,” Nancy said, gesturing to a set of French doors. Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away.

“Just because I can fly, _doesn’t_ mean I’m going to. And it _doesn’t_ mean I have a plane.”

“Do you have a plane?” Jonathan asked. Murray pursed his lips.

“I hate you children,” he said, exhaling and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So, you’ll do it?” Nancy asked. 

Murray frowned and threw up his hands dismissively.

“We’ll probably all die, but I’ll do it. Might as well piss off the commies when we get the chance,” he said. “And I have an old friend in Palana I can get in touch with.”

“You have friends?” Mike asked, to which Murray gave him a withering look. Mike quieted, tucking his hands behind his back and feigning innocence.

“Come back tomorrow with whatever you’re bringing. I’ll handle the rest. And until then,” Murray said, “all of you, get the hell out.”

* * *

The next morning, the group rendezvoused at the Wheeler’s, piling guns and pocket rockets into duffel bags, removing clothing to make room for weapons.

Steve wrapped the end of his bat carefully and tucked it into a small suitcase before zipping it up around the weapon and his clothes.

“Do you really think we’ll find them?” Robin asked. The answer wouldn’t change whether or not they went; every single person in that room wanted to find you almost as badly as Steve did. They may not have known you as well as the Scoops troop had, but they knew what you’d did for them, heard enough stories from Dustin and Robin to feel like they knew you.

“We have to,” Steve said.

You were the one who felt they needed to make things right, to fix the script. Now it was Steve’s turn. Screw fate, screw the writers of destiny. He’d make his own way. And he’d make it with you.


	8. part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter was!!! so fun!!! i spent way too much time researching Russian topography and cities but!!! still fun!! thank you all so much for sticking with me and supporting this fic, i appreciate it! and thank you so so so much to @daddystevee without whom this au wouldn’t exist!! im expecting this to go to 12 parts, so hang in there friends!!

When Ozerov said _protection_ , he really meant _experimentation_. You were not a refugee hiding behind their walls, but a captive, subjected to the games Ozerov and his men played.

His scientists were the worst, wide-eyed men in stark white coats who reeked of antiseptic and found amusement in your confinement and what it meant for their research. From what you gathered - not much, seeing as you didn’t know Russian - these men studied the Upside Down the way Brenner had, but before you arrived, they hadn’t had any puppets. It was Brenner who created a line of mutants, not the Russians.

But now, having pulled you from the floor of the carnage at Starcourt mall, they had a lab rat of their own to play with. Not one of Brenner’s creations, but something new, something different. Something borne of blood and death, something they didn’t even understand. Dragged from what could have been a peaceful death - a worthy sacrifice - back into the light and beneath their metaphorical microscopes.

Two days after the incident with Ozerov in the interrogation room, you were hauled up and out of the cell and brought to a similar-looking place, though this room was larger, and one wall was mirrored. You assumed two-way glass but didn’t have time to inspect it before the door opened again, and another prisoner was thrown in with you. The guards exited, and the door buzzed shut, locking the pair of you inside.

The other prisoner, middle-aged, haggard, and skeletal, went immediately to the mirror and started pounding. He cursed and plead in Russian, and though you couldn’t translate, the message was clear: _let me out_.

Static whined as an intercom switched on, a slick tone spat out of speakers tucked into the ceiling.

“One of you will leave this room,” it said. “It is up to you to decide who that will be.”

You frowned, blood going cold, and met the other prisoner’s gaze. They didn’t actually expect you to….to…

Rage and desperation flashed in the prisoner’s eyes, and he lunged, scrabbling with sharp nails that you quickly ducked away from. Whoever he was, he’d been here far longer than you and was far weaker.

Whatever exhaustion you’d carried into the room dissipated, as if a switch had been flipped, and you straightened, throwing a glance at the two-way mirror, though it revealed nothing.

“Please, don’t do this,” you begged the prisoner, who recovered from his failed attempt and was gearing up for another go. He looked more animal than human, too many days in that dark cell stripping him raw. There would be no getting through to him, you realized.

“All this shit was a lot cooler when it was fiction,” you snapped in the direction of the glass. You were sick of this game, one you’d never signed up to play. All you’d done was watch a TV show, and you still didn’t even know how you’d ended up inside it, let alone at its center.

The prisoner ran for you again, and you closed your eyes, shoving his limp frame off when it collided, both of you rocking back into the wall. You pushed again, fear weaving its way up your bones, scrambling away from him.

“Damn it,” you cursed, sucking in a breath and recovering your balance. “ _Damn it, we don’t have to do this_.”

Your words rolled right off the prisoner, who rolled his shoulders, unused joints making sickening cracks. The fear slammed back into your chest, the air thickening and tightening like a noose around your neck. You wanted this to be over; you wanted to go home. You wanted it so, so badly.

And if you couldn’t go home, you at least wished to be taken back to the cell, where you could curl up on the concrete and dream of your lives before this one. The real one, the one before you’d been thrown into someone else’s story, with your family and friends, and the one after, the weeks with Steve and Robin and Dustin and the others. You could only reach them in memories, now, but if that was all there was, you’d take it gladly. Anything was better than this.

The prisoner ran at you again, and your desperation and anxiety and anger swelled, swelled, swelled until they changed, morphed, pain pricking like needles along your fingertips, up to your knuckles, slinking up your wrists.

You were ready for the man this time, catching him by the shoulders. He wilted the moment your skin met his, lips parting, the pain skating along your skin _pushing_ into his, bringing relief to you and agony to him. You didn’t have time to think about what you were doing, or consider _how_ you were doing it; you only had time to act.

The man’s knees buckled beneath your hands, and he hit the ground, you standing above him, still holding on; it hurt far less to hold on.

“We don’t have to do this,” you pleaded to him, softly, voice barely above a whisper. His face was strained, but he tried to spit at you and swung with a limp hand. Anger flared inside you, and you gripped his shoulders harder, forcing him down.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, and your blood ran cold at the image, the doppelgänger in the glass. You, eyes black as the night sky, inky black veins tracing up your hands, your arms, swirling around your skin like they were alive, kneeling over the screaming man. Like a monster.

Stars dotted at the edge of your vision, the pain building in your hands again, threatening to swallow you whole. You pushed it in the man’s directions, a gentle nudge with your mind, and the pain slithered to him.

His eyes fluttered shut, his screams disappearing, and he slumped back, hitting the ground. You lurched back, away from him, staggering until you hit the mirror. You turned to face it, and looked down at your hands, aching and covered in those lines that had a mind of their own.

For the first time since you woke in the base, you were afraid of something other than your captors; you were afraid of yourself.

* * *

The flight from the airfield near Murray’s home to Palana, Russia, took fourteen hours, for all of which the kids - and Joyce Byers, refusing to let her children dart out of the country on a rescue mission without her - were stuffed into the back of the cargo plane like sardines. The aircraft was _technically_ big enough to hold everyone, but it was designed to carry cargo, not jittery, cooped-up kids, teens, and their reluctant chaperones, so it was a tight fit.

When they finally dipped below the clouds and into Russian airspace, the vast forests beneath them visible through the small windows, the younger kids whooped and cheered joyfully. Robin, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, Billy, and the adults were less enthused. They knew what waited down below, just as well as the kids did, but were no longer young enough to find excitement in the tiny milestone before the big fight.

“For a while there, I really thought we were gonna die,” Dustin said as everyone gathered their things. The plane safely landed on a small airstrip in Ossora, which was about 100 miles from Palana, where Murray’s acquaintance - who he’d avoided speaking of beyond the basics - lived.

“You want to take that up with the airline?” Murray asked, especially crabby after so many hours stuffed in a cockpit. “Oh, wait, I’m hearing from them now…. _they don’t give a crap_!”

“Someone’s touchy,” Lucas said, he and Max slipping past Murray and disembarking. Murray looked as if he wanted to throttle them, but resumed gathering his things.

“He’s _always_ touchy,” added Mike.

“Control your beasts,” Murray said, to which Joyce just shrugged, a small grin on her lips.

“Oh, like I haven’t been trying to do that for nineteen years,” she said, and touched Jonathan’s arm tenderly before exiting the plane, too.

Steve gathered his bag up silently, not in the mood for the teasing or jokes. He had tunnel vision, and all he could think about was you, trapped in the base, alone and possibly hurt. He, Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy had spent the flight going over what El had seen. Even Billy had joined the group’s discussions, despite the evident separation between him and the others.

Steve wanted to leave him behind altogether, but his connection to the Upside Down made him a necessity, albeit an annoying, morose, broody one. Billy had seen you in dreams, too, though his began later than El’s. He could vocalize what he saw more easily, not having to fish through recently learned vocabularies, and was old enough not to sugarcoat it.

According to him and his visions, they weren’t hurting you, but he could feel your unease, your fear, your desperation. He said you were safe, but he didn’t know for how long.

Once everyone was off the plane, Murray led them across the barren airstrip and out a gate to where an old van waited. When they approached, the driver’s seat door popped open, and a woman around Murray and Joyce’s age stepped out. She was bundled up in furs and warm clothes, but strands of white-blonde hair poked through the hood, and she had dark eyes set beneath thick brows.

“I see your proclamation of never returning to Russia fell through,” the woman said with a thick Russian accent, lips curling up in a sly grin, attention on Murray.

“And I am as unenthused about it as you are enthused,” Murray retorted, falling into an easy banter with the woman that proved they were more than just acquaintances.

“What can I say? It is _fun_ to watch you shiver,” she said, nodding to his lack of proper outerwear. It was cold, and not Indiana cold, but _fucking_ _freezing_ cold. Murray made a humph noise and turned to the others, gesturing at the woman.

“Meet Nadya Vitalienva. We’ll be staying with her while you all go off on your suicide mission,” Murray said.

Dustin and Lucas moved first, heading for the warmth of the vehicle, their movement sending the others toward the car as well. They piled their bags up in the back and squeezed in, no one complaining about the length of the drive, too warm, and tired to care.

Nadya’s home was set far back in the woods, down a snowy drive and surrounded by tall trees, two stories, it’s roof bright red, stark against the white snow.

“Welcome to Palana,” she said.

* * *

After the prisoner died - after you _killed_ him - all the fight went out of you, both physically and metaphorically. Two guards came in and removed him, leaving you behind. You sank against the wall and dropped to the ground, knees drawn, monstrous hands tucked between your thighs and stomach. Every few moments fear surged through you, bringing with it that _pain_ , that pricking and burning; sometimes only in your fingers, sometimes climbing all the way up your arms. You kept your eyes clamped shut, afraid of what you’d see if you opened them.

_I want to go home. Please, please, just someone, someone, take me home. Please, take me home._

You missed your parents, the softness of your bed, your friends, even the badly scratched CD in your car that you always meant to take out but forgot.

You missed Steve, and his smile, and the way he laughed; the way he made _you_ laugh, made you _forget_. Steve had made the whole ordeal bearable. Without him, these days or weeks or however long it had been felt like an eternity. Like a knot you couldn’t begin to unravel; couldn’t even _think_ about beginning to unravel.

When the door buzzed open, you didn’t so much as open your eyes to see who came in. You heard one pair of footsteps, slow and calculated; Ozerov. You were both incredibly relieved to see him and implausibly angry that he wasn’t dead. The sharp burn tingled in your fingertips, but went away as quickly as it came, exhaustion fogging your mind.

“What did you do to me?” You asked.

Ozerov pursed his lips.

“We did nothing to you.”

“No, you _did_ something. Made me-made me _into_ something. Turned me into a-” _monster_. You couldn’t spit out the word.

Ozerov shook his head and paced the room slowly, hands at parade rest behind his back. He walked like a soldier, but you doubted he’d seen action in a long time. This was a man who sat behind the safety of walls and barked orders. Who made others commit his violence; even you, now. 

“You should have been dead when we found you. You lost too much blood. Your injuries were fatal. And yet,” he inclined his head, “you were not dead. We simply transported you here, gave you fluids, cleaned your wounds, and let you heal. And heal, you did. More than heal, perhaps?” He asked the question like you both didn’t already know the answer; you knew it, deep down.

“It appears when you were-” he paused, gaze dropping to your covered stomach, where mottled scars from the Mind Flayer’s pincers marred the skin, “- _infected_ by the creature. It allowed you to recover from your injuries and become something more. Something _better_.”

“Better?” You spat. “I-I-that _man_ -”

“You have _evolved_.”

You shook your head, pushing to your feet.

“ _No_. No, that’s not _possible_. I’m not even supposed to _be_ here. None of this is _real_. You’re all just characters in some _fucking_ TV show that I watched too many times, not actual, living people. This is just a story. _It’s just a story_ ,” you said, rage dying out as you spoke, the last words more pleading than frustrated.

“Ah, again with the _story_ ,” he said. He didn’t believe you, which only served to increase the panic building inside you.

You brought your hands up and watched the veins curl up and over your fingers, the pain coming with them.

Ozerov’s mouth twitched - the only indication he was nervous - and he moved for the door, knocking twice. A guard opened it in an instant with a buzz, and two more filtered in, taking you by the arm, thick gloves on their hands. They dragged you quickly back to your cell, depositing before you remembered you could have stopped them - _could_ you? You undoubtedly didn’t know how _it_ worked, or what _it_ was.

You looked at your fingers again, but the lines and the pain stayed away, only your skin showing, with no secrets to tell you. You exhaled and tipped your head back against the hard wall, closing your eyes.

“It’s just a story,” you told yourself. “It’s just a story.”

But it wasn’t, not anymore. The day you’d woken in the field behind Max and Billy’s house, the story became real, became your life. And Steve was right back beneath Starcourt, when he’d said no one got to know the endings before they came.

This was not a story, and you no longer had the luxury of foresight.

* * *

The void brought Billy to you once again, the clearest image he’d ever gotten. He stood in a cell, barely four by eight feet, with a raised concrete slab with a thin blanket and pillow that served as a bed. You sat with your head against the wall but opened your eyes, as if sensing him. Your brows furrowed, and you pushed to your feet.

“What are-how are you-”

“You’re not the only one who can’t kick the Mind Flayer,” he said with a dismissive half-shrug. He inspected the room, arching a brow. “Nice digs.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“I’m dreaming?”

He nodded.

“El says she gets pulled into the void while she sleeps. Only time she can get in. It’s how we figured out you were alive.”

“You’ve talked to El? She’s okay? They’re all okay?”

He nodded curtly.

“And you…you’re dreaming, too?”

“Only way I can get in here.”

“Why…why _are_ you here?”

He gave you a grin that certainly wasn’t merited, given the circumstances.

“I’m here to tell you we’re coming for you. All of us. We’re coming to get you out.”

* * *

In the morning - or, afternoon, seeing as everyone was thrown off by the time change and long flight - the group, Murray, Joyce, and Nadya gathered around her large living room, settled on couches and armchairs or curled up on the carpet.

From what Steve could gather, Murray and Nadya had once been a lot closer than they wanted to admit. Considering the whole ‘proclamation to never return’ thing, it hadn’t ended well between them. But other than flirting disguised as harmless bantering, Nadya seemed more than willing to help. And, an ex-reporter like Murray, she knew exactly where the base you were being held was located; she’d been arrested for trying to sneak photographs, once, fifteen years prior.

The plan fell together, and soon enough, everyone split off to bundle up and gather weapons - the younger boys were making Molotov cocktails, fittingly - anything they thought they’d need. And with Billy seeing you in his sleep - seeing you weak, hurt, losing steam - Steve was more motivated than ever to find you.

He’d get you back. He’d faced Demogorgons and Demodogs, girlfriend’s judgmental dads and the National Championships for Basketball, the Mind Flayer and the flayed. He could save you; he _would_ save you.


	9. part 9

The blaring alarm jerked you out of sleep and had you on your feet, though disoriented, in half a second. It wasn’t a noise you’d ever heard before, sharp and loud and vibrating the walls. A second later, the dim lights shut off, replaced by red emergency lights that dimmed and brightened with the alarm.

You dropped to your knees in front of the door, craning your neck to peek through the slit between the metal and the floor, seeing only footsteps passing this way and that, never stopping or slowing. Fear yawned open inside you, and pain danced along your fingertips; it was almost familiar at this point. Nagging, pricking, but not yet unmanageable and no longer surprising.

The pain - the _power_ \- went hand in hand with your emotions, you were beginning to understand, triggered by fear or anger or desperation. Only by using it did you alleviate it, but as you’d learned the day prior, using it had a cost; a cost someone else had to pay. Your stomach rolled just thinking of the other prisoner, face strained as he took pain that was meant for you.

Three pairs of boots came to a stop outside your cell, and you scrambled back just in time for the door to open, three of Ozerov’s men standing outside with their guns pointed at your face. You clambered back and onto your feet, fists unclenching at your sides, fingers outstretched in an instinctual threat. One set of eyes dropped to your hands, but the others stayed locked on you.

“What’s going on?” You asked. One of the men lowered his weapon, the other seeming to tighten their own grips, and pulled a thin metal collar out of his pocket.

“Intruders.” His accent was thick, and he paused, searching for the words. “You put this on.”

“Intruders? What do you mean? Who-”

A safety clicked off, and you clamped your mouth shut. You had no choice but to allow him to come forward and click the metal into place around your neck. He lifted a small remote when he was done, retreating to the safety of the doorway.

“ _Zzz, zzz_ ,” one of the men said, imitating the buzz of electricity, a sick grin on his lips. Your stomach turned, and the sting in your hands expanded all the way up your arms, the pain nauseating.

_Message received_. If the animal misbehaves, shock the hell out of it.

The guard who operated the collar jerked his chin, and you followed him into the hall, the other two on your tail. The collar was threat enough, but it appeared you made them as nervous as you made yourself, lately.

“Where are you taking me?” No one answered, because of _fucking_ course they didn’t. The henchmen in the stories don’t do the telling; that’s for the villain themselves.

Sure enough, you were led to a room like the first interrogation space and sat in a chair against the wall. Other prisoners, whom you’d never seen, perpetually locked away on the same block as you, sat in their own chairs, all sporting the same neckwear.

More guards than you’d seen in one place stood around the doorway, weapons aimed and cocked, waiting for whatever was coming for them. You thought of your dream, of _we’re coming to get you out_ , and the hope threatened to swallow you whole.

Hope was a dangerous, deadly thing, and you’d done your best to avoid it. But now, you couldn’t help but wish, desperately, that a friendly face waited outside.

And then, just as quickly as the hope came, a new fear cracked wide open inside you.

If it was _them_ , they had no idea who - _what_ \- they were coming to rescue. You were no longer the person who’d been thrown into their story; you were a monster like those they’d fought, a _revenant_ who was never even meant for their world in the first place. You didn’t know how this _thing_ inside you worked, let alone how to control it.

If they touched you, if you touched _them_ , they could get hurt. They could _die_.

When that pain rolled through you, it numbed your inhibitions, allowing only anger and desperation to be free of its sting to bleed through. You had no power to stop it. And no way of warning the people you cared about before they burst through the door.

* * *

Dustin fired his gun - all the bullets were tranquilizers, to everyone’s relief - at a guard, the bullet whizzing right by Steve’s ear, so close his hair shifted. He jerked back, moving out of Dustin’s line of fire.

“ _Jesus_ , man, you almost took my ear off!”

“Sorry!” They continued pushing down the hall; he, Robin, Dustin, and Billy were in this block, the group having split to find you. They were to rendezvous with or without you in fifteen minutes outside, and Steve was getting more and more desperate by the second.

“Sorry doesn’t save my ear!”

“Your ear is _fine_!”

“Would you two _shut up_?” Robin snapped, checking window after window, searching for you as the others kept the path clear.

“Yeah, please, shut up,” Billy quipped.

“Did you just say, _please_?” Steve asked. “Didn’t know you knew that word!”

“Shut the fuck up, Harrington!”

“ _All of you shut up!_ ” Robin emphasized as they turned down a hall, only to see a group of guards at the end of it. They all went silent and scrambled back and out of sight.

Robin pulled her own tranq out of her pocket and checked it was loaded.

“They’re in there. I know it,” Steve said, his anger and excitement building. He was so, so close to finding you, after all these months, and all that stood between you was a handful of Russians. Big whoop. He’d fought worse.

“I say, we just run out there and start shooting like crazy,” Dustin said.

“Isn’t that what we’ve already been doing?” Robin asked.

“Exactly.” Dustin nodded. “So we know it works.”

They all grumbled in protest, but they didn’t exactly have anything better. And it _had_ worked so far.

“Or,” Billy said, “we use this,” and pulled a canister from his pocket.

“What the hell is that?” Steve asked. One side of Billy’s mouth twitched.

“Knock-out gas.”

“Where the _fuck_ did you get knock out gas?”

“Yeah, where did you-” Dustin was silenced by a sharp look from Steve.

“Do you really want the vendor’s information right now, or do you want to get in there and save Y/N?” He asked. Steve and Robin exchanged a look and gave him a curt nod. One side of his mouth quirked up, and he stood, moving to the end of the hall, activating the canister, and chucking it toward the guards.

Their surprised and angered noises rose and fell as the gas took them down, and Steve and the others waited until Billy gave them the go-ahead.

The gas had dissipated, leaving only tiny wisps of white on the ground that vanished as they walked through them. They quietly picked around the unconscious guards to the door they were protecting, all lifting their guns. They positioned themselves on the sides, out of sight, as Billy pushed the door open, and the moment he fired the first shot, they shifted and fired theirs.

Whether it be the shock of having teenagers break down your door, or the gas that may have leaked under the door making them placid, or they hadn’t heard any ruckus outside and known to expect them, the group took the guards down quickly.

Steve, Robin, and Dustin checked that they were all really down, not noticing you in the lineup along the far wall. Billy, however, did.

* * *

They came in blazing, just as you’d expected, but the first face you saw was _certainly_ unexpected. Billy Hargrove crossed the dead, or maybe unconscious, guards littering the floor toward you, tucking a gun into his waistband. You caught sight of Robin, Dustin, and Steve in the doorway, and though your pulse quickened at seeing them - seeing _him_ \- it also made your stomach drop. _No, no, not now_. You weren’t _safe_. They’d get hurt, especially right now, your fear drawing the black veins to the surface.

Billy reached you before the others even noticed you, eyes narrowing at the metal collar clasped around your neck.

“Billy, I need you to hit me.”

“Hit you? I’m not going to hit-”

“Shut up and _listen to me_ ,” you hissed, a stinging hand jutting out and gripping his shoulder. Your thumb grazed the skin of his neck, and he stiffened, your pain jumping into him. “I saved your life, once, and if you don’t do what I say right now, I might end that life. So stop _fucking_ talking and knock me out.”

His lips pulled thin, and he glanced over his shoulder at Steve - just now lifting his eyes to the lineup, gaze shifting closer and closer to you - before clenching his jaw, curling his fingers into a fist, and swinging.

And, as you knew only he could, he did, indeed, knock you out.

* * *

Steve only saw the aftermath - you, head lolling, outfitted in faded beige scrub-like clothing and a metal collar, a bruise already forming on your cheek where Billy had hit you - but he knew immediately what happened, and rushed Billy, slamming him into the wall.

And Billy, for some unknown, godforsaken reason, let him. He didn’t fight back or struggle, not even when Steve punched him in the face. Robin and Dustin dragged him off, barely, and Billy spat a gob of blood onto the floor and stretched his jaw, fingers ghosting over the place he’d been hit.

“That’s how you repay someone who died for you, you piece of shit?” Steve spat, shrugging off Robin and Dustin’s grips, anger decreased enough not to hit Billy. They still needed to get you out and to the rendezvous point; there’d be time to beat the shit out of Billy Hargrove later.

“I’ll get Y/N, you guys cover me.” Steve crossed the room to you and gently picked you up, your head tucked against his chest. They did as he ordered, even Billy - Steve was still expecting retaliation for his hit - and moved into the hallway. Over the walkie, Dustin said, “ _We’ve got them, guys_.”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low, just to you. “ _I’ve got you._ ”

* * *

The others had done their part in escaping, the halls quiet and littered with comatose soldiers, the only conscious people their own. They left just as they’d come, squashed into Nadya Vitalienva’s van, you in the backseat with your head in Steve’s lap, still passed out. Before bringing you into the car, they’d broken off the collar, and though the skin was chafed and red, it wouldn’t leave permanent marks.

As for permanent marks inside, he couldn’t say.

El, Mike, Max, and Billy sat in the row ahead of them, and the three younger kids were turned in their seats, watching you with fascination.

“Just because someone’s asleep doesn’t mean you can stare at them,” Billy said without turning around.

“Not asleep,” Steve retorted, not in need of his assistance, “unconscious.”

Billy shrugged one shoulder dismissively.

“What the hell is that?” Max inhaled sharply, and Steve followed her gaze, Billy twisting around in the seat to do the same, previous declaration abandoned.

Your hands were stained with black ink, he thought, but the ink was moving, tracing up your fingers in black lines. They all watched, awestruck, until the lines went away, leaving only skin.

“What the…” Max said.

“What the hell was that?” Mike asked.

Steve met Billy’s gaze, and the other boy’s jaw was set, something like worry barely perceptible in his eyes. Like he knew something or was just figuring it out.

It made Steve nervous. He just wanted you back, and now that you were here, safe - though unconscious - in his arms, it was supposed to be over.

Though, as he knew all too well, it was never that simple.


	10. part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ive uh… really written 25k for this au in two weeks!! thats a lot! probably too much, so thank you for the support and comments and reblogs, and thank you for loving this au as much as I do!!!!!! and thanks as always to this au’s birth mother @daddystevee!!!!! also i promise it wont be angsty forever i just love the ~ suffering ~
> 
> also sorry stephanie meyer for snagging your scene lol

You slept through packing up and the flight back to Hawkins thanks to sedatives given by Joyce; there was no need for you to deal with any more chaos, whether it be Russian guards or just a tight plane ride.

You woke in a bed - a real bed, not a concrete slab - in a room you recognized, but had only seen on a screen. Will Byers’ bedroom, though its contents were packed in boxes and stacked along the walls, only the bed remaining. Standing near the window, the pane shoved halfway up, was Billy, a half-lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. When you sat up, he took a long drag and blew it out before turning to face you.

“Ready to explain?”

“Thank you,” you said, “for what you did back there.”

He nodded curtly, and you figured that was as much acknowledgment as you were going to get.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t - _don’t_ \- trust myself-”

“I mean, in the mall.” He flicked the butt out the window and crossed the room, arms folded. “You pushed me out of the way. Why?”

You massaged the back of your neck, entire body stiff and achy, and met his gaze.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I didn’t deserve it. I _don’t_ deserve it,” he said, anger making him tense.

“No,” you said, “you didn’t. But you also didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. No one-” you shuddered, remembering the slice of teeth into your skin, “-deserves to die like that.”

His lips pulled thin.

“It changed you, too, didn’t it?”

He didn’t need to elaborate; the words brought the explanation to the surface of your skin, stinging as the veins climbed. You both looked at them, answer enough.

“When you touched me, back in the base. I felt it.”

“It’s a…pain. My emotions…wake it up, and I can…pass it on. Push it into other people.”

“And you need to touch them,” he said.

“I haven’t exactly had time to figure it out,” you snapped. You sighed and sat back against the wall. “I need you to keep it quiet. I’ll tell the others.”

Billy shrugged.

“Harrington’s been sleeping in the hall. Joyce wouldn’t let him in; said you needed to rest. Want me to let him know you’re up?”

“No,” you said immediately. “If Joyce is keeping everyone out, how did you get in?”

His gaze flicked to the open window, a smile tugging one half of his mouth up, and headed for the door to the hall.

“Billy,” you said, and he stopped before opening the door, turning and arching a brow. “Bring me El.”

* * *

El arrived a few minutes later, the door opening slowly as she came in and shut it behind her. She approached the bed hesitantly, then decided against it, standing between the door and the bed frame.

“I need your help,” you said. “Something happened to me, and now I can do these _things_ , and I can’t hurt the others. I _won’t_.”

She relaxed visibly; this was something she was familiar with; she’d spent her life learning to control her power.

“Can I see?” She asked. You frowned, gaze dropping to your skin, currently unmarked by the black veins.

“I don’t-I don’t know how.” At your failure, frustration flared inside you, and the lines jumped to your skin. El stepped closer, mesmerized, watching as the ink swirled and disappeared as you relaxed.

“You got mad, just then. Because you couldn’t do it,” she said. “Because you got mad, you could.”

“I can’t just…not get upset for the rest of my life or avoid touching anyone. That’s no way to live.”

El sat beside you on the bed and took your hand in hers, despite knowing what lurked beneath your skin. She gave you a reassuring smile and squeezed your fingers.

“I’ll help you,” she said.

“How?”

“I had to learn to control my…my powers. You can learn, too.”

“I could hurt you.”

She gave you a small smile, but her eyes were fierce, reminding you that she was more than the young teen she appeared to be. A hardened soldier who’d fought more battles than you could imagine.

“I can hurt you, too.”

You were surprised to find a smile tugging on your lips. Oh, how the tables had turned. It felt like so long ago that you’d sat down on your couch and woken in Hawkins. You could barely remember that person, the one innocent enough to believe every story could have a happy ending, every fight could end without casualties. That person died when you had - almost had - back on the food court floor, and something else - _someone_ else - had risen from their ashes.

Something you’d almost forgotten about flickered to life in the back of your head, information stowed during a time it wasn’t relevant, and you inhaled sharply, meeting El’s gaze.

“El,” you said. “I have to tell you something.”

Her brows furrowed.

“What?”

“It’s about Hopper.”

* * *

The move out of state had, apparently, been postponed, various boxes open around the kitchen, the large group making themselves comfortable. While everyone went home for the night after arriving back - save for Billy, Robin, and Steve - but returned the next morning. Joyce and Jonathan served up coffee and pancakes, all of which were eaten off napkins, the plates still packed.

Silence fell when you and El came into the kitchen, sat in chairs and on countertops or just milling about, eleven sets of eyes on you. Steve cleared his throat and stood, a silent offering for the seat that you took without meeting his gaze, though you saw his shoulders sink in your periphery. El hopped up beside Mike on the counter, and he took her hand after she gave him a reassuring smile.

“There’s something you all need to know,” you said, voice still a little raw, “about what happened to Hopper.”

It certainly wasn’t what they expected your first words after three months to be, judging by the various states of disbelief and confusion written across their faces.

“You’ve been in a Russian base for three months, and you want to talk about _Hopper_?” Steve asked from somewhere off to your left. You resisted the urge to look back at him and straightened your shoulders.

“Back in the mall, I told him what was coming. And I don’t know for sure if he did it, but I told him to jump.”

“ _Jump_?” Joyce asked, breathless. The entire room hung unmoving, like they couldn’t process your words, or _wouldn’t_.

“I told him to jump through the gate and into the Upside Down.”

All eyes moved to Joyce for verification; she was the last person to see him alive, but you knew she wouldn’t have seen it. She’d closed her eyes, unable to watch him die to save them. You understood the sentiment more than ever these days.

Joyce shook her head helplessly and met your eyes.

“I didn’t see,” she said. “I shut my eyes, and I didn’t see it.”

“But, he could be alive. He could be alive, right?” El asked, her hope blooming and infecting everyone in the room, even you. You wanted a win so badly you could practically taste it. You wanted to fix all the things that had been broken since you couldn’t fix yourself.

“If he did jump, he’s been down there for months. Is it even possible that he…” Nancy trailed off, but her worry mirrored the others; three months in the Upside Down was unimaginable.

“Will made it for a week, and he didn’t even know where he was,” Mike said.

“If anyone could make it, it’s Hopper,” said Jonathan.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” Steve asked, stepping forward, arms folded. “The gate’s closed. We blew up the only doorway.”

“I can open it,” you said, the words out of your mouth before you even realized you were speaking. The knowledge surfaced like song lyrics you thought you’d forgotten, like a memory you didn’t know you had, an understanding that came from somewhere else.

“What?” Steve asked, turning to you, and you flinched at the intensity and hurt in his eyes; he’d certainly felt the brunt of your disregard. He looked tired, too, like he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks - maybe months. His hair was bordering on shaggy, in dire need of a haircut, and his eyes weren’t as bright as you remembered.

 _Your fault_ , your mind chided.

“What do you mean, you can open it?” Robin asked. You pursed your lips, brows furrowing.

“I…I think I can open it.”

“No offense,” Mike said, “but it almost killed El to close the thing, and she worked with Dr. Brenner for years. What can you do that El can’t?”

“I can’t explain it. I just _know_ it. If you get me to that gate, I can open it,” you said. El looked at Mike, then around the room.

“After the gate closed, I couldn’t do anything. Y/N brought me, and Billy, into the void. They told us how to rescue them, even if they didn’t know it. I can’t even crush a stupid Coca Cola can. So,” El met your gaze, lips curling up in support, “if you say you can do it, you can do it.”

“I need time. To…figure it out,” you said. Not time to figure out how to open the gate, but time to figure out how to control whatever… _gift_ the Mind Flayer saddled you with. You wouldn’t put any of them anywhere near a risk like going back to the site of the gate without knowing you were safe to be around.

“It’s like our own Avengers team. El, Y/N, and… _Billy_ ,” Lucas said.

“Not quite Avengers level,” Steve said, cocking a brow.

“That’s what everybody said about the Avengers before they were the Avengers,” said Dustin.

“So, they called them non-Avengers level _before_ the Avengers even existed?” Robin asked, poking holes in their logic for the fun of it. You couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged on your lips.

“ _Eat shit_ , you know what I meant,” Dustin retorted. A laugh burst through Robin’s lips, and Joyce scolded, “ _Language_.”

“We’re not the _fucking_ Avengers,” Billy snapped, refilling his coffee and leaving the room.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Dustin said, “The team is a work in progress.”

* * *

Despite your best efforts, Steve managed to get you alone later that afternoon, finding you in the bedroom and entering without knocking. You turned from where you stood near the bed, sorting through clothes gifted by the others - you supposed you needed to start a wardrobe. It appeared you’d be staying for a long time; forever, perhaps.

You hadn’t thought about it much - hadn’t had the time or energy - but part of you always expected to wake up safe on your couch, the whole thing a big dream. But as time passed, that part of you grew smaller, and now, it was hard to locate.

This was your world, for the time being.

“Hey,” he said, caution in his tone.

“Hey,” you said causally. His brows twitched.

“I-” he massaged the back of his neck, his discomfort evident. “I wanted to….” He lifted his gaze to yours, eyes soft and warm, and as beautiful as you remembered them. “How are you doing?”

You turned back toward the bed and continued sorting, though you couldn’t focus on anything him behind you.

 _It’s for the best_ , you reminded yourself.

“I’m fine,” you said. “Ozerov had me in a coma for most of it, anyway.”

Steve inhaled sharply.

“Ozerov? He’s-”

“Alive? Yes.”

“And he was-he was _there_ -”

You whirled, a hoodie balled in your hands, and forced your face into an empty slate.

“Did you need something?”

His face fell, but he zipped his wall back up a beat later, lips pursed.

“Did something happen?”

“Other than my time as a prisoner, and dying, you mean?”

He paused. 

“I can’t-I have no idea what you went through. So if you need time, I can give it to you, but you’ve gotta talk to me.”

“ _Nothing_ happened,” you said, nausea coiling like a snake in your gut with every word. “I don’t need time. I don’t _need_ anything from you.”

He recoiled like he’d been hit, and the confusion hurt you more than anything. He didn’t understand why you were doing this, and you couldn’t tell him, because if you did, he’d just tell you it was _okay_ , he didn’t _care_ , because that was who he was. It was one of the many reasons you…

You pushed the train of thought off its track and held Steve’s gaze, eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared, face all scrunched up, and you wished desperately to cross the room and throw your arms around his neck, close your eyes and pretend things were different.

But they weren’t. They were what they were.

“Back at Starcourt, you said-”

“I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have said, or done, any of it.” The _done_ part was unspoken; the kindness, the kisses.

He shook his head in disbelief, the beginning of a protest forming, and you swallowed the bile in your throat and pushed on.

“I got caught up in being in the story, and I got carried away. But it wasn’t real.”

“I know you’re scared, that you’re changing and it’s scary, but you don’t have to do this alone-”

“ _That’s not_ what this is about,” you interrupted, using all your strength to keep your voice from wavering. You willed yourself calm; if you could make it through this without hurting him, without the power awakening, you wouldn’t have to worry about it again.

All it took was two broken hearts.

“ _Us_ …whatever you _thought_ there was…it was all bullshit,” you said, barely managing to hold his gaze, shame burning inside you, threatening to bring pain with it. The words burned your tongue when you spoke them, but you knew the only way to make it stick was to make it sting; the only way to keep him from loving you was to make him hate you.

And it worked. His expression hardened, and he reminded you of the Steve from the beginning, the one who’d spat venom and hid behind popularity. He wasn’t your Steve, anymore; you were a liar, a cold-hearted deceiver. You deserved the hatred in his eyes, but it still broke your heart to see.

When he left, you let him go, and crumpled the moment the door shut, two different pains battling for ground inside you. The darker won out, and the pain filled your entire body, growing and growing until it was so big you were numb to it, and the hoodie clutched tightly in your fingertips turned to ash.

* * *

“This isn’t working,” you grumbled, throwing your useless hands up in frustration. How was it that those damned veins only showed themselves when you didn’t want them? And how could you ever hope to live around anyone again if you couldn’t trust yourself with a single emotion?

El pursed her lips.

“You’re not angry, or scared, enough.”

“I’m _trying_.”

“But it isn’t real,” she said. “There is no…threat.”

“There will be, if we open the gate.”

“If _you_ open the gate.”

“Don’t remind me.”

El smiled.

“You’ll get it. You just need motivation,” she paused, like a lightbulb had flickered on in her mind, and she looked to Mike, Will, Dustin, and Lucas, who sat against the house a few feet away; the four had been determined to watch you practice, but so far, there had been little to see.

“Mike,” El said, and jogged over to him, saying something you couldn’t hear. He glanced at you, frowning, but got to his feet and slipped inside.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Getting motivation,” she said. A moment later, Steve and Robin exited the house, Mike behind them. Robin and Mike sat back down, but Steve came to you and El, though he wouldn’t look at you.

“Mike said you needed me,” he said.

Fear bubbled up inside you, and you stumbled back, hands burning.

“No,” you said. “ _No_. Not a chance.”

“You said it’s tied to your emotions,” El said.

“I know what I said,” you exclaimed, “but I won’t do this.”

“You can’t learn to control it if you can’t even use it.”

“I’m not _doing it._ ”

“If it helps us get Hopper, just…do whatever,” Steve said. Big words for someone who didn’t know what he was up against.

“Take Y/N’s hand, and don’t let go,” El said. She met your gaze and said, “You can do this.”

“No. El, no-” Steve grabbed your hand, and though the touch sent shivers up your skin, the moment lasted only a second before he tightened his grip, and the wave coursed through you, your fingers burning. The pain slipped into Steve, searching for a release, and his knees buckled, letting go of your hand with a gasp. You hurried backward, out of arms reach.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said, bending over for half a second and straightening, letting out a breath. “Jesus.”

“We’re done,” you said.

“No. _No_ ,” he snapped. “I’m good. Go again.”

“I’m not hurting you,” you said.

“Burnt that bridge, didn’t we?” He retorted, rendering you silent. He threw out a hand, but it was in no way inviting; you steeled yourself and took it anyway.

Even with your attempts to breathe, the worry that you’d hurt him _made_ you hurt him, the veins looping back up your skin.

No. _No_. You bellowed the word inside your own head, over and over. No, no, no.

Steve flinched as the pain jumped into him, but he remained steady, and you closed your eyes, stretching invisible hands out and _pulling_ back, drawing the pain up through your fingertips, a scream building in your throat. But at Steve’s breath of relief, you pulled harder, dragging all the agony into you and away from him.

You held only a second more before you couldn’t any longer, yanking your hand out of his and falling back, landing on your hands and knees. You gasped for air, the stars clearing from your vision, pain fading.

When you climbed back to your feet, seven sets of eyes watched you with awe.

“Now that,” Robin said, a smile on her lips, “was pretty fucking cool.”


	11. part 11

The Byers’ home became a sort of home base over the next week, a constant stream of kids and teenagers fluttering in and out between jobs or after school, more and more boxes being unpacked every day. Boxes were unpacked out of convenience, and the idea that Hopper was still alive silenced any moving talk, the relocation indefinitely postponed.

The house was often quiet during the day, Joyce and those with jobs at their respective workplaces, the kids in school. You didn’t mind the calm, spending most of your time with El, out in the yard training, and by the time the others milled in at the end of the day, you were comfortably exhausted, emotions and power depleted.

You ambled out into the living room on the sixth morning, surprised to find Billy sprawled across the couch, a small, worn novel in his lap. Billy’s presence was still puzzling; Max, Joyce, and half the kids tolerated him, but the other half made no effort to even acknowledge him most of the time. He didn’t seem to mind or even notice, and when the others left at night, he crashed on the couch. Joyce had given him an open invitation, sensitive to his issues with his parents. Still, it was clear his station irked the others. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t kill anyone,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the book.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Babysitting’s Harrington’s thing.” Billy sat up and set his book aside, seemingly not caring if he lost his page. You caught a glimpse of the cover: Frankenstein. Oddly fitting, for both of you.

He removed his feet from the other end of the couch in a silent offer, and you plopped down onto the cushions with folded arms. Billy followed your gaze to the upside down book, arching a brow.

“Didn’t think I knew how?”

“Not that,” you said. “Just didn’t take you for a classic literature fan.”

He shrugged a shoulder dismissively and said, “It makes my head quiet. Only time it shuts up.”

You understood the feeling well. To jump into someone else’s head - to watch them fall apart and put themselves back together within the pages - was more than a distraction; it was an evasion. One only achieved with someone else’s words in your head.

You jerked a chin to one of the many boxes littering the room - the bare bones furniture remained, but everything else was still packed away - and the tissue paper spitting out the top.

“Help yourself?”

One side of his lips quirked up, “Not my fault they can’t decide to go or not.”

“You think they’ll stay?”

“If they find Hopper?” He cocked his head. “They were running away from what happened. If he’s here, there’s nothing to run from.”

“Maybe Joyce will open this place officially as a half-way house,” you said. “It’s pretty much turned into one this past week.” You drew your knees up onto the couch and turned to sit against the arm, arms slung loosely around your legs. “Speaking of, you didn’t answer me before.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“My father,” he said coolly, “wasn’t happy about Max disappearing for three days. Joyce said I could stay here until he calms down since I couldn’t exactly tell him where we were…” he trailed off and met your gaze, arching a brow, almost in accusation, “but I don’t have to explain why. You saw my greatest hits.”

You winched instinctually, images of intimately painful moments flickering behind your eyes; moments no one deserved to have on display.

“ _Speaking of_ ,” he half-mocked, “did you know it would work? That I wouldn’t die with the Mind Flayer anyway, making your senseless sacrifice even more senseless?”

“I didn’t,” you said evenly. “But it did. You’re welcome.”

His lip curled.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know you didn’t,” you said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You should.” He crossed his arms. “Isn’t this story all about killing monsters?”

“You were…possessed,” you said. He laughed mirthlessly, a hollow sound.

“I was a monster long before the Mind Flayer touched me,” he said.

You paused, and asked, “And what are you now?”

He let out a breath and leaned back, some of the ever-present fight going out of him for the moment. He didn’t look like a monster, then, hard-edges smoothing over. He looked like a boy who made a lot of bad choices with a second chance he had no idea what to do with.

“No fucking clue,” he said. “Thanks to you, I have to figure it out.”

“I’m so sorry for giving you this second shot at life,” you said sarcastically, to which he smirked and dropped his gaze, plucking at his cuticles.

“Where’s-”

“School and work,” Billy said. “Harrington’s off at six, so he’ll be back for you to stare at longingly all night.”

“Jealous?”

“You wish, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes and said, “I don’t _stare longingly_.”

Billy inclined his head and shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“You should go easy on him,” he said. “He didn’t even have a body to bury.”

“It’d probably be better if I hadn’t-”

“Don’t,” Billy said. “None of that shit.”

“It’s true. I’m-”

“Dangerous? Damaged? Half the people in this house are. You’re not special,” the words were harsh, but the tone, surprisingly, was not. “You’re gonna have to find another excuse to keep making yourself miserable.”

“You say that like it’s so simple.”

“So, he pisses you off, you might hurt him. Max’s mom throws plenty of dishes at my father, and he’s still here, unfortunately.”

“Because that’s the kind of relationship I want,” you said, arching a brow.

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Then make it that simple.”

You grumbled in protest, letting out a huff, to which one side of Billy’s lips quirked up.

“Just go back to your monster,” you said, nudging his book with a socked foot. “Leave this one be.”

He snorted and picked up the novel.

* * *

Terror looped a rope around your neck and choked you slowly. The screams of the prisoner from Kamchatka banged around your skull, and his face, contorted in agony, refused to leave you.

Your skin burned and pulsed to the beat of your heart, the pain - and it’s quick retreat - dragging you back into consciousness. Steve couldn’t hide his flinch fast enough, hand jerking away, standing beside the bed in sweats and a tee-shirt, hair disheveled. You shrunk toward the other side of the bed and pushed yourself to a sitting position, sweeping the sweaty stray hairs off your forehead.

“You were screaming,” he said in justification and stepped back, though it seemed more for your benefit than his own.

“I’m okay.” You crossed your legs beneath the blankets and leaned your forearms on your knees, taking in slow breath after slow breath until the pain faded. You met Steve’s gaze. “Did I hurt you?”

Something imperceptible flashed in his eyes, and he said, “No. I’m good.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” you said, instead of explaining what had you screaming yourself silly in the middle of the night. He nodded, mouth twitching into a frown, and turned to go. A rush of guilt and desperation rolled through you, and the word, “ _Stay_ ,” fell from your lips. Steve stilled halfway and met your gaze, searching your face for an objection you didn’t have the energy for right now. You were tired, and you hurt differently, chest heavy, every breath painful. You missed him so badly it hurt.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and when you didn’t protest, he shifted again, each move made with caution, like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten. You didn’t think the truth was that far off.

He watched you like he was looking for you, even though you were right in front of him. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you, now; what he thought.

If you spoke, you’d never stop, and you didn’t trust your tongue around him, so you laid back down and tugged the covers back without a word. Steve slipped beneath them and laid beside you, both on your sides facing one another. The pillows were close enough that only inches remained between your faces, but you didn’t move away; something about the dark made the rules easier to bend.

“Are you scared of me?” You hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and it hung between you for a long few seconds before Steve responded.

“No,” he said. “I probably should be, I know. But I’m not. When I look at you, I just…miss you. Even though you’re right here.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you said, in lieu of responding to his words.

He turned his head toward the ceiling, a frown twisting his mouth.

“I was so pissed at you, at first. For…dying and for…leaving. _Leaving_ me. And every time I saw Billy’s face, I wanted to punch it in, because he was supposed to be gone. Not you.”

When I found out you were still alive…it was dumb, obviously, but I thought things could just…go back to the way they were. But that was stupid of me. They can’t. I know they can’t.”

“Still pissed at me?” you asked.

One side of his mouth quirked up, and he met your gaze again.

“Right now?” He shook his head. He shifted ever so much closer, a hand reaching for your cheek. You flinched, fear flashing its head, fingertips pricking, and he stilled, hand falling away, gaze lowering to the hands balled at your chest and the fading black. A crease formed between his brows.

“Why did El pick me to help you the other day? Out back?”

You pursed your lips and tugged the blankets over your hands.

“It’s tied to my emotions,” you said. “Fear, or anger, or anything…. _strong_ , I guess. I don’t know.”

“But why _me_?” He pressed; you didn’t think you’d be getting out of this without giving a little. You were so tired of pretending you didn’t want to give everything.

“You know why,” you said softly. He drew in a long breath.

“I don’t, actually,” he said. “The last time I saw you, you…” _the last kiss, beneath explosions and carnage,_ “And next thing I know, we’re here. And you’re…different. You’re _different_ , and you won’t talk to me about it, won’t let me help you. Last time I saw you, you told me everything, and now, you won’t even look at me,” he said, words pulling your eyes to his face in an admission of guilt.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, gaze darting to your hands and back up.

“That stopped being possible the day you died.” His mouth set in a hard line, and your stomach twisted.

“You said it yourself. I’m different. And I don’t even understand how, not completely. I can’t risk you. I _won’t_ risk you.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” he said, “and I’m not afraid of you. You won’t hurt me.”

“I already _have_!”

“Ripping my heart to pieces doesn’t count,” he said, half-teasing.

“Steve-”

“Oh, too soon?”

You shifted uncomfortably, and Steve let out a breath.

“I’m sorry, for what I said. It was a low blow, but I was trying to-”

“Protect me?”

You sighed. “Yes.”

“I don’t need you to save me.” He tried again with the hand, hovering an inch above your cheek. Your lips parted, pulse jumping, and he let his fingers settle against your skin. The fear rumbled through you, but you willed the pain - _ordered_ it - to stay put.

 _You’re mine_ , you warned it, _not the other way around._ And to your shock, it listened, seeming reluctant as it slowly edged away, and dispersed.

“I’ve killed people,” you said.

“They deserved it,” he retorted.

“I could kill you.”

He snorted like you’d cracked a joke. “Doubt it.”

You were no less aware of your darkness beside him; he had no illusions about your perfection, either. The shame that had skittered across your skin when you’d hurt him the few days before was nowhere to be found.

“ _Steve_.” His mouth quirked at his name, soft and tender on your lips. He took your hand - with all its capability - and drew it to his lips, pressing them to the delicate skin of your wrist. Your skin tingled at the light touch, heart and stomach flopping.

You inched closer and closer until you were breaths apart, and with one jab of a chin, you were kissing. His hands traced carefully up your arms, across your collarbones, settling on the sides of your neck. Your fingers found their way into his hair and tangled in the strands, tugging him closer, lips parting against his.

Being with him was as comfortable as breathing, a lightness filling your chest, something long tangled unknotting itself inside you. His lips skimmed your cheek, trailing down your jaw, and you tipped your head back to give him better access.

Your heart beat like a kick drum, pounding in your ears, adrenaline coursing through you. You didn’t notice the tingling - the pricking, growing in intensity with every hard thump of your heart. You shot a venomous no toward it, but the tingling stayed. It took Steve a moment, too, but the pain jumped, and he stiffened. You lurched away instantly, and neither of you spoke as you caught your breath.

“What was…that?” He asked, a brow arching, a sly grin on his lips.

“I’m so sorry-”

“Sorry?”

You frowned, pushing up onto an elbow. “I…I didn’t hurt you?”

He laughed, breathless.

“No,” he said. “It was like, a _shock_. Like _tingling_.” He took your hand and tapped your fingers.

“Tingling?” You crinkled your nose.

“Poor voice of words.”

“So, you’re okay? You’re not…”

He pushed toward you and stretched up, tipping his forehead against yours. Your stomach fluttered.

“I’m okay,” he assured. “Pretty great right now, actually.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, and Steve slipped an arm around your waist, tugging you back against him. You sank into him with a sigh - giving in - and pressed your lips against his, hips canted toward him, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“I missed you so much, Steve Harrington,” you said, and he smiled against your lips. He pulled back and swept his lips up to your forehead, kissing it gently.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, meeting your gaze, eyes alight with the defiance of a stubborn child. “You can’t make me.”

“Remember that, when I try.”

He smiled. “Promise.”


	12. part 12

Steve woke first, the room warm from yellow light seeping through the thin curtains, rays of sun tracing across your face beside him. You curled against him, back pressed to the wall; to watch the room - to protect yourself - he realized with a sharp twinge.

In sleep, your ever-present frown - the last time he saw you smile felt like a lifetime ago - was gone, features calm, making you look younger, almost innocent. But even with your body language reading calm, the changes were in the smaller things. You were a painstakingly light sleeper, jumping awake at his slightest movement. The past few days had been a lesson in patience, learning to sleep beside one another, and you still fell asleep with your back firmly against the wall.

Steve resisted the urge to stroke your cheek, not wanting to interrupt your slumber; a peaceful one was no longer easy for you to achieve. He was content to just look at you, your lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with slow breaths. The tension you hauled around each day - evident in the set of your shoulders and crease in your brow - was taking the morning off, it seemed.

Your lips parted, brow furrowing ever so slightly, and your eyes snapped open. When they settled on him, you relaxed - though he didn’t miss your quick scan of the room.

A tiny, sleepy smile tugged on your lips, and you shifted toward him, pressing your face to his bicep and letting out a sleepy noise. He rolled and slipped an arm around your waist, drawing your gaze up to his face.

“How long have you been staring?” You asked, cocking a brow.

“Me? Staring? I would never.”

“Hmmm.” You stretched up, ghosting a kiss across his jaw, and fell back against the pillows. The intimacy of the gesture made Steve’s stomach roll and twist.

Within the walls of the spare bedroom, hidden behind closed doors, is the only place you let down your own fences.

“I missed that,” Steve said softly, thumb reaching up to brush across your lips and their rare smile. Your lips pulled thin for a moment before curling back up ever so slightly, and you caught his wrist, kissing his knuckles. It seemed you’d both missed the ease of touch.

“I’m sorry,” you said, smile fading. “That I’m so different.”

Steve frowned and tugged you closer, dropping a kiss to your head before pulling back to meet your gaze.

“You’re still you,” he said. “You’re still the person that pissed off the Russians so they’d take you and not me. The person who pushed Billy out of the way. The person that I…” he trailed off, the realization hitting him as he spoke. _That I love._

He could see how badly you wanted to argue, ghosts banging around your skull, blood still staining your hands, but he didn’t let you.

“I don’t care what you’ve done. I care who you are.”

“And how can you be sure about who that is?” You asked.

“Because I know you.”

The unwavering, steadfast support was like a kick to your chest. After so much time curled on a concrete bench, the word _monster_ battering around your head, it didn’t seem possible for anyone to see something other than black veins and pain. You were death incarnate, the only remaining darkness from the Upside Down, an evil place Steve had lost enough to already. But here he was, hands on your monstrous skin, unafraid, uncaring; wanting you anyway.

He was a miracle in the form of a ragged tee-shirt and unkempt hair. A miracle you’d do anything to hold onto.

“What was it like, before? You never talk about where you came from.”

You sighed, rolling onto your back, gaze settling on the popcorn ceiling.

“My world was as complicated as this one,” you said. “But it wasn’t all bad.”

“Do you miss it?”

You folded your arms, thinking of the never-ending news stream, the violence and pain and corruption, but also of ocean waves lapping over your toes, the way you and your friends danced to shitty pop music in dark rooms, and your parent’s voices.

“My world is broken,” you said. “But I miss the people in it.”

“Would you…go back?”

You turned your head, a grimace pulling on your lips.

“I don’t think I belong there anymore. Though, I’m not sure if I belong here, either.”

“You belong where you want to,” Steve said, somewhat stubbornly. You slid against him, a hand settling against his chest.

“At first, before I realized all this was real, I didn’t want to go. And when I realized it was, I think it was too late, anyway. But I thought about it a lot, when I was in Kamchatka. What it’d be like to go back after all this.” Your frown deepened.

That world…isn’t my story. But this one isn’t either. Maybe I’m cursed to be out of place forever.”

“Maybe it wasn’t your story then, but it is now,” Steve said. “You changed it. And you’re part of it.”

You wanted to believe him, his face earnest with his own notions.

Maybe he was right. Maybe the life you’d lived before waking in the woods had never been your story; or maybe, it had only been part. Maybe each and every one of us has a million stories tucked away inside us, waiting to be found and lived.

“Would you go back?” He asked again, and this time, you didn’t need time to think about the answer. For better or for worse, you knew where you belonged, now; or, at the very least, where you wanted to belong.

“No,” you said, “I wouldn’t.”

* * *

On the day before the planned rescue mission - a Saturday - the Byers’ home was as full as you could remember it being. Your training sessions with El always had audiences - whoever was home at the time - but today, the entire house stood along the outer wall, watching as you and El faced each other across the grass.

“Billy,” El said, drawing him from his place against the wall to join you both.

Steve was a perfect motivator, and over the past few days, he’d spent most of his time with you, whether it be training or…other things. But today, the final day, the most critical session, it was Billy that would be used.

Despite’s Steve’s protests, he’d taken the brunt of your power of the past week, and you refused to make him any weaker for the morning’s expedition. That left Billy, more than willing to help; more than willing to help if you were involved, at least.

The friendship that sprouted between you made no sense to you, let alone everyone else, but Billy was like a silent bodyguard, always present in case you needed it. You’d told him over and over you’d have sacrificed yourself for any of them, but he still felt the need to watch over you, like he owed you something.

Rather than stopping in front of you, like always, he took El’s instructions to stand back. You frowned, meeting the young girl’s gaze.

“How am I supposed to-”

“Throw it,” she said.

“Throw…my…”

“The power,” El said.

“You can’t count on your enemies waltzing right up so you can kill them, can you?” Billy asked.

“I don’t-I can’t-”

You met Steve’s gaze across the grass, and he gave you a small nod, urging you on. You took a breath, drawing strength from him, and looked to Billy.

“Ready?” You asked. He nodded curtly.

“Do your worst,” he said. He paused, and added, “Or maybe a little less than your worst.”

You closed your eyes, images of Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Erica down below Starcourt flicking behind your lids. Their fear, their desperation. The anger at the Russians - for hurting them, for hurting _you_ \- built itself up, bricks sliding into place, your pulse leaping and fingers pricking. You forced the pain into your hands, stopping its climb up your arms and onto your chest, the veins pooling and curling until your hands were pitch-black, skin barely visible beneath them.

You’d never used it without touch, didn’t even know how to begin. Steeling yourself and commanding the pain to stay, you opened your eyes and met Billy’s gaze. His jaw was set, the only indication he was nervous.

“You sure?” You asked again. He crinkled his nose slightly and grunted a yes.

“Hit me,” he said.

You thought of the kids in the mall, chucking fireworks, fear and fatigue woven into their features; you thought of El and Joyce, crying in each other’s arms; you thought of Barbara Holland’s gravemarker, an empty casket beneath it. All the fear and pain and death, some watched, some experienced. 

And then you _threw_. The veins leaped off your skin, dancing and twisting as they shot through the air and caught Billy. He stiffened and keeled over, a gasp tumbling from his lips as his knees hit the grass. He caught himself, head snapping up, and you yanked back, the pain retreating back into your arms, stinging and disappearing.

For a long minute, silence hung in the air. Billy caught his breath, pushing back onto his feet, and you shook out your achy limbs, unable to look at your friends along the wall for fear of what you’d see in their eyes; fear; hatred.

“That was so _fucking cool_ ,” Max said slowly, excitement rising with each word.

“How did you do that?” Mike asked, eyes wide and bright.

“ _Me next_ ,” Dustin said, which resulted in a chorus of _no_ ’s.

Steve moved to stand beside you, a hand sliding into yours, and Robin took up the other side, the others gathering until you stood in a clump. Even Billy wasn’t excluded, standing beside Max, the hint of a smile on his face.

“The Upside Down doesn’t know what’s coming for it,” Robin said, shaking her head, an approving grin on her lips.

“Y/N is coming,” Billy said.

“And nothing stands a chance against you,” Steve said. You couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged on your lips; the sensation was unfamiliar, but you decided you missed it, _liked it_. Happiness was a dangerous thing, but you’d go down fighting for it anyway.

* * *

The mall was scheduled for demolition, but as the months passed, it seemed less and less likely, the already crumbling building sitting untouched. Luckily for all of you, though, it made reaching the gate effortless. Though you and Steve were on edge as the elevator dropped, it landed safely at the bottom as you’d known it would. 

When you reached the gate, there was nothing remarkable about it, nothing to signify it’s activity, but you could _feel_ it. Like something waking inside you, whispering your name, calling for you. It _wanted_ to be open.

The dark wall was unblemished, but you approached it and placed your palm against the uneven rock, warmth blooming beneath your fingers.

“How do you open-” Steve started, only to be silenced by Robin. You let your eyes fall shut, tethers in your mind stretching out, finding purchase in the rough rock.

_It’s time to come home,_ the voice whispered. You ignored it.

_You are ours_ , it urged.

You pushed harder against the wall, willing the dozing particles to wake up and split apart. It came alive beneath your fingers, and when you opened your eyes, a red crack showed through the dark wall. You pushed the growing pain right into the wall, and the crack extended, elongated, _crept_ up to the ceiling and down to the floor.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Steve whispered.

“Told you,” El said, and you could hear the smile in her voice.

The crack widened in the middle but stopped in its expansion. You frowned, power faltering.

_Come home_ , the earth whined. _Come home to us._

The Upside Down wanted to regain its property - you - but you had no plans of letting it follow through.

But you weren’t the only mutated descendant of the world beyond that crack.

You turned to El and said, “I need your help.”

She joined you in an instant, and you took her hand, placing your free one back on the rock. You let the anger back into the room with a _whush_ , and the power reactivated. But it wasn’t just your own; you could feel it through her fingertips, electricity buzzing in her body, lying dormant in wait. As if stuck behind a locked door.

“I can’t,” she said with a disappointed breath.

You dropped your gaze to El, whose brow was furrowed in concentration and frustration. You took her by the shoulders, deserting the gate for a moment, and forced her to look at you.

“Listen to me,” you said. “You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not some messed up experiment. You’re a force of _fucking_ nature, and I can’t do this without you.”

“I don’t think I can-”

“Stop thinking and just do.”

Her features contorted. “I can’t. I can’t-”

“I know you’ve lost everything,” you said, voice low enough that only she could hear, “I know you lost Hopper, and your family, and your friends. But this is how we find our way back. This,” you said, “is when we stop fighting what we are.”

“And what are we?”

You cracked a grin, and in her surprise, she smiled, too. 

“We’re wolves,” you said, “And we’re going to blow this house down.”

Her smile widened, all traces of hesitation and fear fading, replaced by a fierce determination that reminded you - and her - of who she was. She was not a damsel in distress, not a helpless victim, not a broken toy; she was power incarnate.

You were not possessions of the Upside Down, monsters created to assist or fight or find it. This was your story. Her story. Steve’s, and Nancy’s, and Billy’s, and everyone else’s.

Fate had nothing on you.

Wordlessly, El placed her free hand against the wall, closing her eyes. You followed suit, fingers splayed across the stone.

You felt the moment she broke it free of its cage, wild and angry power slamming to the surface. Blood dribbled out of her nose, and the tickle on your lip told you it probably did the same from yours, but neither of you faltered.

_You are ours._

_I am my own,_ you shot back, the anger striking the final match and blowing the gate wide open. It yawned to life, orange and red and yellow like the most horrifying sunset you’d ever seen.

You and El dropped your hands at the same time, breathing heavily. You swiped a hand across your nose, ignoring the pulsing of your heart against your skull, and turned to the others.

“Ready to do this?” You asked. In reply, guns were lifted, studded baseball bats were gripped tighter, and grim-faced nods were given. Steve moved to stand beside you, reaching down to take your hand, squeezing. You met his eyes, and he said nothing, merely tipping his forehead against yours for a long second and stepping away. He didn’t need to say anything; you already knew.

“I’m overdue for a shot on one of those bastards.” Steve rolled the handle of the bat around his hand with ease, careful not to swing at anyone. Your lips quirked up.

“For once,” Billy said, “I’m with Harrington.”

* * *

The Upside Down was, at the very least, easy to navigate. Despite its darkness and debris and mucus-covered-everything, it was Hawkins. And they knew Hawkins.

“If you were Hopper, where would you go?” Nancy asked.

“The cabin,” El said instantly, setting off in the direction of the woods. You and the others followed, settling into a formation as you walked. No direction was left unwatched, and though nothing appeared, the telltale shrieks and roars rumbling out of sight told of Demogorgons lurking in the darkness.

You made it halfway to Hopper’s cabin before one showed its face, ugly, gangling form darting out of the trees toward your and Steve’s side of the formation. You didn’t even have to think, didn’t have to draw anger out, before your fingers shot out, veins splitting off your skin and tangling around the beast’s face. It screeched, loud and wailing, and dropped, writhing as your darkness choked the life out of it. As soon as the Demogorgon went still, the pain rocked into you, stronger here.

But you were stronger, too. Like your power had been seeping through a crack in a doorway, and now that you’d entered the room, it had no more restrictions.

More darted from the trees, but it wasn’t only you who’d gained strength down here; El had two split in half before you even thrust out an arm.

“Come on!” Jonathan yelled, the six of you tearing through the trees. Relief flooded through you when you came upon the clearing, the cabin set against the trees, dusty and dark but _there_.

Nancy fired a shot back into the darkness, and Billy fired another, and you bolted for the safety of the clearing. The six of you formed in a tight circle facing outwards, but nothing crossed the tree line.

A door whined open behind you, and a rifle cocked, then, just as quick, clattered to the ground. You whirled and found a ghost standing on the porch of the cabin, his beard grown out, features gaunt, eyes hardened from months on a battleground.

_Jim Hopper._


	13. part 13

Three months could have been three years of three minutes for all Hopper could tell. Keeping track of time was of little concern when one was trapped in an alternate dimension and hunted by humanoid bastards with Venus fly traps for mouths. His priorities were few, but if they weren’t met, he’d die.

Maybe it was overly obstinate of him to keep fighting - to keep dragging the well and boiling the diseased water and eating whatever he could find - but he wasn’t ready to give up. He wasn’t done with the world, yet.

* * *

He was weary and dirty and limping, but Jim Hopper’s eyes burned with just as much fire as always. El moved first, stumbling across the uneven ground and up the porch, throwing herself into his arms with a sob.

Hopper went still for a moment, brows furrowed, before all the tension flooded from his face and his eyes fell shut. He dropped to his knees and hugged her fierce, the emotion on his face making your own heart twinge.

“This is nice and all,” Billy said, sounding bored, “but if we don’t cut this goodbye short, those pricks in the woods will.”

His words struck a chord in Hopper, who pushed quickly to his feet with his rifle in hand, scanning the tree-line.

“How many are on your tail?”

“Five,” Nancy said. “But they won’t come into the clearing. Why?”

A tired smile tugged on one half of Hopper’s mouth.

“They know better,” he said, no humor in his tone.

“El and I can handle it,” you said. “Just….cover us.”

Hopper quirked a brow, but it wasn’t the time for explanations or reunions, and he knew it. He ducked into the cabin and returned a beat later, stuffing ammo into his pocket and cocking his rifle. He came down the rickety steps, El on his side. She looked renewed, fierce determination written across her face. The intent was clear: anyone who tried to take him from her would not live long enough to see her wrath.

The creatures swelled in number as you tore through the grimy streets, but none broke the line; either El had it, or you did, and if you missed it, a shotgun or rifle took it down for you.

El and Hopper reached the gate first, not hesitating to push through and out of sight. The rest of you slowed to follow them, Jonathan first. Nancy was about to follow when a twig snapped, and Billy howled in pain behind you. She spun, raising her gun, and Steve followed, close to your side.

Billy had been snuck up on in your desperation to reach the gate in those final moments, and from the blood soaking through his pant leg, he’d been bitten badly.

More Demogorgon’s spilled into the streets, their clicking growls filling the dark sky and thundering in your ears.

“Steve!” You snapped, meeting his gaze. He frowned, and for a moment, it seemed he was going to protest. But he didn’t. He just nodded, brows furrowed, and lunged for Billy. Nancy blasted the beast’s face wide open, and Steve ducked, hoisting Billy up, shouldering both of their weight as they limped to the gate. Nancy fired shot after shot, but it wasn’t enough, not even with your help.

“Get them through!” You called, meeting Nancy’s gaze. Her lips parted, her own protest dying on her lips as she took in the scene; there was nothing she could say.

She just pressed her lips together and came up behind Steve and Billy, pushing them through the gate and to safety.

Which just left you.

_You are ours_ , the voice whispered. _You belong to us._

You thought of days on the couch or behind a laptop, laughing and crying for a collection of characters you’d come to care about as if they were real, living people. Hours on the internet, reading theories and watching trailers and exchanging opinions and art and writing. The pain and joy that came with caring for anything; even just a television show. That story - that _life_ \- was just as good as the one you’d watched, the one you’d fallen into; full of drama and heartbreak and laughter and loss. Maybe not TV worthy all the time, but still _good_.

We do not choose the story we end up in. But we choose what we do with it; how we react to the curveballs, whether they are created by a god or fate, a professional writer or an amateur on a blog site. We choose how we take the hurt and what we do with the love. We choose to become monsters, or we choose to stop being them, or maybe, we choose to fight them.

Steve was right when he said this was your story, now. It was yours because you _wanted_ it to be; wanting something is half the battle. Maybe not the most critical part, but crucial nonetheless.

_You are ours_ , the darkness insisted.

_I am what I choose to be._

You dragged up all the anger and frustration from the lifetime of pain that came with existing, darkness from before you’d fallen into another world and before, and thought of the people beyond the gate; the people whose stories mattered just as much as yours, who deserved the chance at happy ones. And you threw. Threw the agony and wrath and darkness away from you, the pain blinding.

You stumbled back blindly, and as you pushed through the gate, you commanded the power the slam the doors shut. Not shut them, not ease them closed, but slam them so hard the hinges broke, and the door could never again be opened.

And it listened.

***2 MONTHS LATER***

Christmas fever hit Hawkins hard, the streets a constant flutter of shoppers - anxious mothers herding toddlers, ignorant men scratching their chins, children mucking snow and dirt everywhere - for all of December. On Christmas Eve, though, Main Street was silent beneath a flurry of snow, the town’s inhabitants readying cookies for Santa and tucking into bed.

You pushed through the door into Family Video, swiping the snowflakes from your beanie and stomping your boots on the mat. The bell dinged to announce your entrance, but no one came to the counter, and the store was otherwise empty.

Further drying your boots by scuffing them along the carpet, you padded back to the stockroom, slipping inside to find Steve facing the far wall, wearing headphones and a walkman tucked into his back pocket as he rifled through a box of movies. You walked up behind him and touched him with a finger, sending the smallest vein of black onto him, just enough to shock. He jumped, tugging off his headphones as he turned to face you, a smile tugging on his lips.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“That was the point.”

“Oh,” he said, setting the walkman aside and slipping his arms around your waist, tugging you closer. “Then, I guess, well done.”

You laughed and wound your arms around his neck, fingers playing at the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Weren’t you supposed to close half an hour ago?”

He made a face, jerking a chin to the boxes behind him.

“Keith made me stay to do inventory.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, _I’m aware_.”

“Still not your biggest fan, I presume?”

“He is.” Steve untangled himself from you and grabbed one of the boxes, flashing you a grin before setting it back on the shelf. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

You snorted. “Well, we’re supposed to be at Joyce’s in less than an hour. Billy and Robin are in the car, and Billy said, and I quote, ‘Tell Harrington to get his ass out here in five minutes, or he’s walking.’”

Steve crinkled his nose.

“Why did I agree to be his roommate again?”

“I think Robin convinced you when we were drunk,” you said. “But, I think _I’m_ technically your roommate.”

The living situation had gone much better than anyone had expected. The apartment had three bedrooms, inhabited by Robin, Billy, and you and Steve, and in the last month, there’d only been one almost fistfight; almost, because you zapped the hell out of them both to get them to chill. It wasn’t perfect, but it got Billy and Steve out of bad households and got Robin out of her overbearing parents.

“Well, if _Billy_ said so…” Steve mocked, arching his brows. You grinned and took his hand, tugging him out of the stockroom and into the store. He locked up while you waited at the door, and the two of you ducked through the cold and snow to Robin’s car. She was driving, having flipped a coin with Billy, who’d protested vehemently at his loss, but eventually settled in the passenger’s seat silently.

You and Steve squeezed into the back, and the four of you headed through the cold to the Byers’, who, predictably, hadn’t moved away. With Hopper back, they had every reason to stay.

* * *

Christmas Dinner was being held at the Byers’, and with everyone stuffed into the house, it was oddly reminiscent of the days after returning from Russia, the house always smelling of food and coffee, always bustling with noise.

But unlike then, you didn’t relish the quiet. You savored the chaos.

“Merry Christmas!” Nancy exclaimed, greeting you first, leading the four of you into the kitchen. “I’m assuming Steve is why you’re late?”

“Hey!”

“Obviously,” Robin said.

“Look who decided to show,” Hopper said, stepping into the kitchen, an arm around Joyce’s shoulder. She leaned into him, lips curled up in a smile.

“Blame it on him,” you said, jerking a chin to Steve.

“At least he’s not three months late,” Hopper said.

“And you can blame _that one_ on the Russians,” you said pointedly. Hopper smirked.

“I’ll give you that.”

“It all worked out in the end,” Joyce said.

Everyone was wrangled into the dining room, stuffed into mismatched chairs, eating off random plates, the chatter of conversation carrying through the whole house. When you were all finished, Joyce and Hopper passed out on the couch, heads tipped together, and Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Billy took the kids out back to look at the stars, on El’s suggestion, leaving only you and Steve.

Once everyone was gone, the house quiet, Steve tugged you against him, face pressed to the warm skin of your neck. You hugged him tightly, fingers tracing his shoulder blades slowly.

“What are you thinking about?” You murmured. He shifted, pulling back to meet your gaze, lips quirking up.

“Just wondering if I’m still your favorite,” he asked. You laughed, flingers climbing to tangle in his hair, drawing his face closer.

“You’ll always be my favorite,” you said. And when he kissed you, it felt just as real as it always had. This story had monsters, and death, and destruction, but it had a lot of other things, too. It had joy, and love, and bravery. It had an ending, too, but this time around, you couldn’t see it. And surprisingly, you didn’t care. 

So, maybe no one gets to choose what stories they get plopped into. But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.


End file.
